


Foot-in-Mouth Syndrome

by heli0s



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bucky is going to kill you probably, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, F/F, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, Potty Mouth Reader, READER HAS A DOG, Reader loves her dog, Reader-Insert, Steve is very happy you've tripped into his life, cranky bucky, mischievous Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heli0s/pseuds/heli0s
Summary: What kind of name is BUCKY? Your dog's name is BUCKEYE. Much better.





	1. What's in a name (that which we call a Bucky)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You just want to live peacefully with your dog, man. Fate decides otherwise, however, as you meet some assholes late one night.

It’s past midnight when the bell on your doorknob titters. A high-pitched whine follows the noise and you drop the book in your hand before emitting a loud groan of annoyance. As a response to your complaint, footsteps quickly pad back towards the computer room you sit in.

“God damn it,” you scold towards the door, “I just took you out like an hour ago.”

It’s half-serious, half-playful as you point a finger towards the 50-pound mass of pure muscle now pitifully cocking his head to the side. Your dog, Buckeye, lovingly named after your alma-mater’s mascot whines pathetically as he falls forward onto his two front paws and gives you the saddest look he can muster. The slate-grey skin between his eyes bends upwards in crinkly folds as he continues to peer at your perched figure on the swivel chair.

You shuffle your desk space around, placing the heavy tome from your hand over the mountain of other paperbacks scattered about. Taking one final look over the paper you’d been working on for the last two weeks, you hit save, making sure it uploads itself to the online drive before stepping away.

The clock on the lower right-hand corner of your monitor reads 2:30. _Fuck_. _Way more than past midnight._ You had been so focused on writing you didn’t even realize how late it was. Sending an apologetic look to your dog, you rub his ear before heading down the hallway and grabbing the leash by the door. Poor guy, you hadn’t taken him out in almost _four_ hours.

He’s striding towards you, tail wagging back and forth at the sight of your hand on the leash. His tongue flops out stupidly and you giggle at how _dumb_ he looks. Before clipping the leash to his collar, you give him a big kiss on the head and push your face affectionately. He’d come such a long way in the past five months.

“Okay, big _baby_. Let’s go.”

The training bell hanging from the knob flails against the door as you step outside, closing it shut.

You and Buckeye head downstairs, your slippers squishing against the wet grass as he leads you over to his favorite sniffing grounds. Under the lamp, you scroll on your phone distractedly, making sure you’d replied to all the e-mails you had received earlier in the day. Eyeing him from time to time to make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to, you tap out a quick response to a group message from some classmates. They’re probably awake at this time anyway, you muse bitterly, graduate school can be a real bitch like that. Tucking the phone into your back pocket, you fiddle a doggy bag from its container strapped to the leash and maneuver it over your hand.

“No sniffing that poo.” You command Buckeye, and he gazes back over his shoulder at you for a single brief second, as if truly contemplating your authority before giving it a quick whiff anyway. You scoff before tugging him from the pile and further back into the grass. “C’mon, Buck. Dude, I gotta get back in. Please poop. The bag’s ready for you.”

You wave it around helplessly as he traipses on, keeping close, but really pushing your patience. Ten minutes later, you decide you’ve had it with him and start tugging him back towards the sidewalk. He resists at first and you have to use your “mom” voice a couple of times before he follows your lead and drags himself back to your side.

This was the usual routine of your life: wake up, go to campus, work on campus, work from home, find time to eat, work some more, go to bed. In-between all of those activities was of course, take Buckeye outside to jog, pee, shit, and socialize… when he was up for it.

You “adopted” the big lug from the shelter six months ago, falling head over heels for that stupid white oblong patch (you called it his Penis Patch because c’mon… it looked like one) and that wrinkly-ass forehead of his. He had been abused as a puppy and then abandoned in an alleyway with a handful of other pit bulls. By the time he got to the animal shelter, he was massively underweight and _terrified_ of being near humans. He was only two months old. It took a lot of work on your end to get him back to a normal weight and as much as people loved to praise how you “saved” him- it was honestly the opposite that happened.

Yes. It was cheesy and gross as fuck to admit out loud, but that dumb animal actually saved _you._

If you hadn’t adopted him and decided he was going to be your tether to this fuck-ass world, you were cock-sure you’d have tied yourself a noose out of bedsheets already. It’s what you told your therapist because it was just the damn truth.

The spring air of Manhattan whipped over your face as you make your way towards the stairs of your unit, taking glances here and there to make sure nothing scary was happening. Your location was relatively safe, but honestly, you never know with people. You had seen your fair share of frightening and inexplicable things from your time in New York.

As if you were summoning the bad luck to your doorstep, gunshots ring out from a few blocks away. At least you hope it is, because the echo throughout your apartment unit suggests that it’s much closer. Buckeye starts twitching, darting left and right at the sound. You’re steeling your body as he begins to pull and snap at him with your fingers, calling his name. He heads quickly towards the apartment. Another shot resonates between the buildings.

On your right, Buckeye lets out a high-pitched yelp and jumps as rapid footsteps approach behind you. You barely make it two steps out of the way before a heavy body barrels into you and knocks you onto the sidewalk. Both your knees hit the concrete hard and you immediately roll to your side and fumble to find the leash that fell from hand. Your dog is _losing it_ , and frankly, you are about to as well.

He starts to take off towards the darkness of the grass and you’re screaming his name, trying to scramble up to catch the plastic handle of the retractable leash that’s dragging against the ground. His tongue is loose and panting as he whips his head back and forth between you and the darkness, unsure of where to go.

“Come here! Come!”

You ignore the searing in your kneecaps and reach out as you take a step. Before you can make it much farther, an arm swings itself over your neck and strangles the rest of your words.

A single shot fires off at your dog. Buckeye is _outta there_. He’s yelping the whole way and you cannot stop yourself from shrieking.

“Don’t _fucking_ speak.” A voice growls behind you. The body it belongs to is distinctly masculine as they knee you in the back and prop you up to stand beside them. The cold barrel of a gun presses itself against your temple and you freeze, hands quivering at your sides. Your heart has either imploded or is about to because you can’t tell if it’s beating or not anymore. There is ringing in your ears from the gun being fired in such close quarters, your eyes struggle to focus.

You have so many questions, but your mind is currently a squirrel in traffic running between the front axle of two tires labelled: “Is this where I fucking die?” and “Is my dog okay?”. Getting splattered to bits by either one was dealer’s choice, and your dealer didn’t seem too choosy.

In the distance, footsteps approach and you see two large frames enter your blurry field of vision, lit up under the streetlamp. There are two glimmering silver shapes reflecting that flickering light, one in the shape of a … dinner plate? And the other… another dick. What the hell? Oh god, you think automatically about your dick-spot-shaped dog. Where is he?

“Let her go!” the dinner plate yells. The barrel presses further into your head.

“Drop your weapons!” your assailant calls back, “Or she dies!”

You’re in a bad procedural cop show or something, you swear. Or Ashton Kutcher is 50 years old and he is laughing his ass off in a van right now, filming a new season of Punk’d. You squeeze your eyes shut when the gun clicks against your head, which is generally right after it goes off, according to the movies. There’s a warm sensation against your back and you hope to god that it isn’t you pissing yourself. When you smell the coppery scent rising, you realize it’s the man’s blood. When he sways a little and your body droops with him, you are _positive_ it’s his blood.

The funny silver California/dick shape in the distance moves and becomes a small circle, with a dark spot in the middle. Is that a fucking gun? You blink a couple of times to see the shadowy outlines of the two people stepping closer. There’s aggravated whispering from both of them and your attacker begins to yell about something before a deafening blast cracks past your eyes.

Warm blood sprays on your face when the man falls backwards, heavy limb taking you down with him. You get some of it in your mouth and you scramble to fuck off as far as you can from this now _dead_ body. The two shapes are running towards you, one of them gripping you hard by the arm and pulling you up.

“Buckeye! That is _not_ protocol!”

You dizzily shake your head at the sound of your dog’s name and find your balance on the sidewalk, toes pressing against your slipper to have it back on your foot correctly. In front of you were two enormous men, and you recognize them immediately: Captain America and Winter Soldier.

“You know I don’t miss.” The Soldier retorts, bottom half of his face obscured by his signature black latex mask. It muffles his voice, but you can clearly hear the agitation. Captain America looks over your dripping red knees. “You okay, ma’am?”

You ignore him. As far as you were concerned at this point, they were both just as dead to you as this other fucker on the ground. You wanted to find your dog.

“Buck?” You call into the patch of darkness as you carefully tread into the grass, wincing when your knees sting with every step. You don’t see the two Avengers looking at each other in confusion.

“BUCK!” You scream again, panic returning to your chest as you think about your dog scurrying around in the dark, dragging his damn leash, and spiraling back into the hot mess he was six months ago. Damn it, it had taken you so long to train him out of being skittish, and now he was going to be right back in it. You look around the dark, turning the flashlight on your phone and follow what looks like to be a trail of blood. It’s not yours, so you correctly deduce it’s Buckeye.

You start to hyperventilate, shaking with every step.

“Oh, Buck, you piece of shit you, I swear to god, if you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

“…Ma’am?”

You whip around and glare at Captain America, “What!” He takes a step back, hands coming up as if to deflect your outcry. His partner next to him places his gun back in the holster at his hip with a quiet click, eyeing you suspiciously. Captain America looks around, like he’s surprised you’ve yelled, because he probably doesn’t get yelled at very often by people he saves.

“…Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Th’ broad’s mental.” The Soldier scoffs, heading back towards the limp body on the ground. He digs his hands into every pocket of the corpse, even opening the mouth to peer inside. “We need to move this body.” He pulls out a tiny USB from a sewn-on pocket inside the vest and puts it in a pouch on his belt.

“I’m looking for my damn dog.” You hurl, “I’m looking for my fucked-up rescue dog, who was doing _very_ well and on his way to being a proper _good boy_ , before you fucks came along and shot him!”

You hear yourself being more and more hysterical with every syllable. Your pitch is increasing with your heart rate, and the part of you that fears retribution from super soldiers is raising its hand up to be called on by your dominant lizard-brain. Your lizard-brain is soaked in fear and refuses the hand.

“ _That_ guy shot your dog.” The Soldier nudges the body with a steel-toed boot.

“ _You_ scared him! He’s afraid of loud noises and you were shooting up the place, you trigger-happy mother _fucker_ ,” you point a finger to the offending Avenger, “You could have _shot_ _me_ , you bag of limp dicks.”

Winter Soldier lets your insults slide; you’re definitely off your meds, he thinks. “Like I said, I _don’t_ miss.”

Captain America finally snaps his shield back onto his back and runs a hand through his hair. You’re half surprised he’s not wearing that dorky-ass helmet he’s usually sporting but turn around regardless and start walking faster, ignoring the muddier ground the further you go in. From the position next to the soon-to-be chalk outline, the two Avengers argue quietly before one of them groans and they both fall silent. You figure they’ve kissed and made up.

Grass is shuffling behind you as Captain America effortlessly catches up to your uneven steps.

“I can track your dog. Let me help.”

You say nothing because you’re so preoccupied with being pissed off that this happened in the first place and because you honestly couldn’t refuse the help regardless of how overinflated your pride was. You couldn’t see for shit in the dark and you’d rather have Buckeye back than any amount of satisfaction flinging insults could bring. Stepping back, you let Brown-Beard take the lead and follow him through the mud and into the back of a unit now five buildings away.

When you slip on a particularly wet patch, he’s quick to grab your elbow and support you. He also takes it as an opening to make conversation.

“What’s type of dog is…”

“Buckeye.” You say, pulling your elbow away and falling back into step. He turns around and raises a single eyebrow.

“Buck… _eye_?” The second syllable is dropped low- as if he’s unsure that it’s the right thing to say.

“….Yes. Buck _eye_.” You hiss back.

“Buck… _eye_.” He repeats again, moving the sounds around in his mouth carefully. You pull a face but say nothing. Boy they sure like to make ‘em big and dumb, don’t they?

“He’s a pit bull. He’s gray with a white patch on his chest. He’s not fucking lethal or anything- like people think he’s just… damaged. He’s not even full-grown; just an oversized ball of anxiety and post-traumatic stress.” Your voice becomes distressed the more you talk about your good boy, and you decide to shut up before you can burst into tears.

“We’ll find him, promise.” Captain tries to send you a smile, but it gets misplaced in the thick of his beard and you’re not even looking anyway, pretending to follow the trail so he doesn’t see your eyes well up. You’re thankful for his help. But fuck him still; he scared your dog.

“There’s no more blood, which is good,” He says, “Steps are getting closer together, so he’s not running anymore. There’s a funny… thing- though. What’s he dragging?”

“His leash.” You mutter.

“Ah.” There’s a pause, “You know, that’s actually a good thing- it’ll slow him down.”

It’s at least another twenty minutes of walking in silence as you follow Captain Star Spangled Banner out of your apartment complex and down three completely decrepit alleyways, at least one littered with broken glass. Upon entering the fourth one, you swear you hear clattering in the back and pick up your speed, calling out.

“Buck? Buckeye? Is that you?” Your voice is quivering in the dark. Your companion has stilled beside you, not letting his footsteps drown out your voice. “Buckeye, come here.” You’re as careful as can be as you quietly step forward, a tiny bit closer to the slow shadow in the corner.

When a car drives by on the main road, the shine of headlights reflects two glowing blue pearls that you’d recognize anywhere. His tail is wagging happily against the pavement of the alleyway, and it breaks your heart to see he’s battered in blood.

You put both your arms around him to settle him from possibly scurrying away at the sight of Captain’s figure, who hangs in the back, but is still so large that it disturbs Buckeye. “My big guy,” You sob into his stupid, dirty neck, “You’re all muddy... Oh Buck, you big idiot… you dummy.”

You find the handle on the leash again, but Buckeye is tentative to follow, stumbling when he stands up on all four feet. When you lean over to examine him, he’s all cut up on his paws and you see it now, the big streak of open flesh on his upper thigh that’s crusted over into a brown stripe. The shiny fur that’s beneath it is matted with more dried blood and it’s so large that you break out into tears all over again. You don’t think he’s able to walk anymore, which might have worked out in your favor; it _did_ stop him from running.

Captain slowly makes his way toward the two of you and reach both hands out, kneeling and laying one gently underneath Buckeye’s snout to scratch him. Your dog inspects the hand nervously before giving it a quick lick. He pants happily at the scratch to his chin and you can’t help but snort at his simplicity. Captain offers to pick him up for you and you let him, surprised that Buck’s letting someone other than you be so close. You’re glad for it, though, since you would _not_ have been able to pick him up out of the alleyway on your own.

“I’ve been compared to a Golden Retriever before,” Captain says amiably as he easily holds Buckeye in his arms, leading you out of the dark path. He’s got a glint in his eye like he’s real proud of himself for that quip. “I definitely think of myself as a dog person.”

You scoff and save your retort for another time, pointing him in the direction of your local pet emergency hospital instead.

It must have been a sight for them, Steve ponders as he sits in the waiting chair of the hospital, giving away smiles at the receptionists and nurses who occasionally gather to stare at him. When the automatic doors slid open, they probably weren’t expecting Captain America in full tactical gear to walk in with a dog in his arms. Not to mention the young woman who followed, looking in not much better shape than the dog.

He glances over to you as you lean back in the plastic chair resembling more of a bucket than anything comfortable. Both your knees are completely skinned raw and the trail of blood reached your feet, caked in mud. The woman at the front desk offered you some bandages and antiseptic, which you’d haphazardly sloshed all over yourself before resigning to let it be. Your eyes have slipped closed as you wait for the nurse to come talk to you about your dog; it is late, after all—nearly four in the morning, and Steve lets you rest when he hears your breathing slow.

He begins to check his phone, punching in a text to Bucky with updates, barely able to hold back the giddy energy inside of him. Bucky was going to _flip_ when Steve cracks open the can of worms that is the dog’s name. And it’s going to completely boil his noodle when he hears that your description of your dog almost perfectly matched Steve’s own description of Bucky. He swears right now, under these old fluorescent lights and with God’s blessing that he would never, ever, let Bucky live this down.

“You… use…a … flip… phone?” Your disbelieving voice is so quiet that Steve thinks a ghost is making fun of him.

“Well, it does flip, and it _is_ a phone.” He retorts, face completely blank for a couple of seconds before breaking out into a smirk.

Your sit up in the chair, looking over to Steve incredulously. “Who are you, my dad?” Your features twist into a disgusted sneer, but he catches the amusement in your eyes.

He chuckles in response. It’s not the first time Steve’s been told that his jokes were corny, at this point in his life, he’s decided to just go with it.

“Don’t you have someplace to be? Maybe more Avenging in another quiet neighborhood?” The snark comes out sharper than you intend it, but between the two hours of sleep last night and probable zero hours of sleep you’ll get tonight, you’re on autopilot.

“It’s being taken care of.” He stares straight ahead. Your comment implies that you’d rather him leave, but he feels in part responsible and obligated to stay. Besides, you’ll need a ride home and someone to carry your pet to the door. “I’m sorry about your dog.”

“He’s not fucking dead,” You huff, “If he was, you and Bicentennial Man would be fucked. You won’t _believe_ how many knives I can carry in my mouth alone.”

Steve almost gives himself whiplash as he does a double-take on your completely placid and unfazed profile view. He thinks it’s better not to ask about the capacity of knives your mouth can hold or about how you _know_ that very specific fact about yourself. However, he can’t help from letting out a wheeze of a laugh because the feral image frankly reminds him more and more of Bucky; Steve has _definitely_ seen Bucky with a knife in his mouth.

Another fifteen minutes pass of drifting in and out of sleep before the nurse peeks her head out and calls you into the treatment room. She stares open-mouthed when Steve followed dutifully behind and closes the door with a quiet click.

Buckeye is lying in a lethargic daze on the table with a plastic cone around his neck. The large gash on his leg has been stitched and carefully covered by gauze and his paws are bandaged up as well. At the sight of the two of you, his tail begins to pat slowly against the smooth surface of the table in quick taps before trailing off and starting back up again. He is looking into your eyes, but Steve can see his gaze wander around the room in a medicated stupor from time to time. 

His stomach tightens when you begin to sniffle and draw lazy circles on Buckeye’s head with your thumb. The nurse runs over the health diagnostic for your pup and all seems pretty well, considering the doleful state he’s in.

“He might not eat for the first day, but you’ll have to try to make him...” The nurse hands you a large zip-loc full of bandages, ointments, pills, and paper. “Keep the cone on for at least two weeks and stick to the dosage schedule… Do you have any questions?”

You shake your head, rifling through the various items in the bag before zipping it back up.

“Okay. Well, he’s doing really good, and I think he’ll make a speedy recovery soon.” The nurse offers you a smile and you reply kindly, thanking her for everything before sighing at Buckeye. Steve steps forward in the silent moment and scoops your dog’s tired body into his arms before thanking the nurse as well. She goes white as a sheet when you open the door to let him out. Steve hopes there won’t be any tweets later about Captain America saving puppies.

At the front desk, Steve watches you shuffle side to side when the receptionist rings up each cost. Dressed in an oversized Ohio shirt and pajama shorts, it’s obvious you are not prepared for this. You were probably just a college student, and since he didn’t see you make any phone calls to your parents or family members who might foot the bill, he assumes you’re on your own. Before the receptionist can hand you anything, Steve shifts and tilts his right leg forward.

“Can you reach into this pocket?” He asks, startling everyone in the vicinity: you, the receptionist, and your dog. You stare at him dumbly for a minute, grimacing at the leg pointed in your direction and the back-and-forth Captain America’s eyes keep sending you. It goes from your face to his pocket and every time it returns to your face your frown drops more.

“ _What_?”

“For my wallet.”

“Fuck no!”

“C’mon… I don’t think you have any other options,” the sentence hangs on a truth you don’t need spoken. You pale and begrudgingly reach for the snap closure on his thigh, widening grimace now making your face look like a melted Dali painting. The receptionists’ eyebrows go higher and higher the closer your shaking hand gets. Captain America bounces his leg to shake the leather case loose as your hand digs inside and gets stuck between fabric and muscle. Buckeye grumbles in his arms at the jostling and his holder whispers a quiet apology before nuzzling him with his nose.

He doesn’t notice you staring. The receptionist does.

When the wallet is finally pried free (why are his pants so tight, anyway? This bitch is dummy thicc, too, you think) he motions for you to pull out a black card with a surprising bit of heft to it. You nervously hand it over and avoid eye contact with him as the transaction finishes, stuffing the damn thing back in and snapping it shut in one swift motion. You can feel your face stuck in a rigid expression of bewilderment the entire time.

“I-- uh... thanks... for that.”

He motions you with his head to go outside and when you follow him through the automatic doors, a black car is parked in front. The Winter Soldier is in the driver seat and reaches over to open the door. He’s taken his mask off and looks over at the Captain with your dog in his arms. He’s all stubbly and homeless-looking, you think, the complete opposite of Golden Boy Rogers in front of you.

An exhausted look passes over his dark features as he glances from Captain to Buckeye to your fucked-up knees. “...Just... get in.”

The ride is silent save for the sound of Buckeye’s soft whimpers in the fit of a nightmare. You hush him with soft pets and coo his name in his ears. “It’s okay, Buck. I’m here, Bucky.”

The Soldier snaps his gaze up to you from the rearview mirror. Captain America smirks. You catch neither of their expressions, transfixed on your dog who resembles Frankenweenie more than himself. Stupid fucking bad guy. Stupid Avengers.

“What did you just say?” Winter Soldier slowly asks, and you glare at him in the rearview mirror.

“ _What?”_ You snap back. What the fuck was his problem? “Mind your fucking business, I’m talking to my goddamn dog.” Buckeye whimpers again and you pat him lightly to soothe his crying. Captain America begins to chuckle quietly from the passenger seat the longer Winter Soldier stares at you. “Eyes on the fucking road.” You hiss when you catch his glare.

He’s probably going to shoot your ass, you think. Your dog begins to whimper again, a broken string of yowling erupting from him before he stills. The taped gauze on his side has started to turn a slight pink. “It’s gonna be okay, Buck.” You sigh.

“Jesus, _what_ the fuck are you saying?” Winter Soldier nearly shrieks as he pulls sharply into a parking space in front of your building. His volume startles your dog and he shoots up with a loud whine, hitting the plastic cone on the back of the driver’s side. You quickly place both hands on his back to settle him down. “Buckeye, it’s okay.”

Captain America is in a full-on giggle fit now, having to hold his sides to stop himself from seizing. He briefly pauses to apologize and puts a hand on your dog’s head, quieting him with a lazy pet.

“It’s her dog, Buck!”  
“Yeah I know it’s my dog, _Buck_.” You snarl, confused as to why this is even a topic of discussion.

Red, white, and shit-for-brains starts up again with the laughing. “Th-the dog’s name--” He wheezes. “Is _Buckeye_.” There’s a flash of recognition that sweeps over the driver’s reflection in the rearview before it turns into one of annoyance. Then it turns into disdain.

“What kind of a fucking name is that?” He spits before smacking his hand into Captain America’s chest.

“Hey! Shut the hell up! That’s my alma mater you uneducated dickbag!” You point to your red Ohio State shirt with the big “O” right in the middle. It’s so worn and old that the red has faded, and the white print of the O is all cracked, but anyone with two braincells knows exactly what that means. You start bellowing the Ohio State Fight Song proudly and halfway through the second note Buckeye starts to howl weakly beside you.

Captain America bursts into another fit of laughter and pounds on the dashboard with his fists.

The Soldier whips around and slams his metal hand against your mouth, pushing your entire head back against the cushion. “Will you _shut_ up!” To spite him, you continue humming to the best of your ability, even with your lip smushed up against your teeth and his cold palm. You raise your middle finger up between his eyes before holding the last note out particularly long.

Buckeye yowls and yips at your side, punctuating the tune with a quiet whine at the end. He lazily reaches up and licks the elbow joint between the front seat, leaving a slobber trail. He notices his reflection in it temporarily before getting distracted by Captain’s chuckle and lying back down.

Winter Soldier finally pulls his arm away and you take the opportunity to spitefully lick a similar stripe onto his palm, leaving it dripping with the spit you’ve accumulated in your mouth.

He crossly slumps in his seat. “I fucking hate this girl.” He mutters.

“It’s mutual, princess.” You retort, rubbing your stiff jaw and running your fingers against your lips. “What’s your problem with my dog’s name?” You’re a bit suspicious because he doesn’t seem like a college sports guy since he was non-responsive to your shirt but he sure as hell is not a fan of your dog.

“Do you know _our_ names?” Captain America asks you, eyes alight. You shrug, because like, not really. World War II was interesting when you were in the sixth grade and morbid as fuck but it totally went in one ear and out the other for your entire college career. Even more boring was the Captain America propaganda, Super Soldier serum, humanity’s hubris bullshit. You were one of the few people you know who was not losing their mind when Tony Stark toured your university. More than anything, he annoyed you; he caused a huge traffic jam on campus and it ruined your route home. They just weren’t your thing—the Avengers.

“I mean, Stevie Ro… Rober—“ you gauge his reaction carefully, “Ronald— Ro— Ross? Rogers!” You breathe a sigh of relief as he memory of Emily Booth in fourth period doodling “Rogers” inside a million hearts appears in your mind. Then you turn to The Soldier and shrug. Plain as day, you could not recall his name whatsoever. You just called him the Dead Commando in that fourth period American History II final paper.

You got a passing grade, so “Dead Commando” stuck.

“It’s James Buchanan Barnes.” He grits out between clenched teeth.

“That’s fancy.” You deadpan, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Bucky. For short.”

“Buck, for even shorter.” Rogers pipes up, still all twinkly in the eyes, waiting for you to put two and two together. _Yeah_. You do. It makes you want to die a little.

“Ugh.” Is all you can manage.

\--

He shows up the next morning in civvies: white T-shirt, navy blue bomber jacket, and well-worn dark jeans. You stare dumbly at him as he leans against your doorframe, almost as wide as the entrance itself. You’re half-asleep and dressed in the clothes you had on last night: crumpled red Ohio shirt, mismatched pinstriped blue and white pajama shorts.

Your phone had been misplaced amidst the ruckus of the search party, so you just planned on missing your meeting today. It wasn’t like you could properly function anyway, barely getting to bed at 5:30 and waking up at the asscrack of dawn with Captain Underpants at your door.

Even his knocks sounded patriotic. Big, strong thumping blows that rattled all the way into your bedroom.

“Rough night?” Steve Rogers asks as you try your best to smooth the flyaways of your bedhead. Stupid, perfect, blonde and blue-eyed giant man.

“Am I being haunted? What are you doing here?” Your voice sounds like gravel in a blender as you rub the sleep from your eyes.

He shrugs, looking down at his shoes and smiling secretively, like he’s got another corny joke up his sleeve. “Just wanted to see how Buck’s doing.”

“Don’t you have your _own_ Buck to babysit? From what I remember, he needs a leash more than mine does.”

You let him in anyway, and your dog is waiting patiently by the couch, tail slapping the carpet as he remembers his savior from last night. Steve starts to coo as he scratches Buckeye’s chin and head, careful not to rile him up too much. He looks in complete ecstasy when Steve picks at a particularly good spot.

You shift awkwardly as you stand by the kitchen bar, leaning against a stool. How does one man still manage to look like his superhero moniker in _civilian_ clothing? You bet yourself that his closet hung the same monochromatic color pallet—as if costume director dressed him, just in case he forgot he was Captain America.

“Well...” you begin, moving to the kitchen to brew yourself some coffee. Halfway to the single-serving French press, you trade it out for the larger one and add extra water in the kettle. You’re not sure what to say, so you shut up and groan inwardly as you grind the beans. You dip into the restroom and return with your toothbrush, scrubbing quietly as you watch Steve get on the floor to rub your dog’s pink tummy.

“If you pet him with your foot he won’t know the difference. Save ya knees, man.”

“This good boy deserves a real tummy rub, doesn’t he?” Captain America is using baby talk on your dog. It makes you feel... all funny.

Steve Rogers stands up and beams at you from across the counter. You frown because his perfect white smile is brighter than the sunlight streaming in through your window. You spit and rinse your toothbrush in the sink to avoid the shine, but he’s still there when you return. Great. Not a dream. Maybe a nightmare.

You take the kettle off the stovetop when it starts to squeak and blurt out another snarky comment just because you really hate silences and love being awkward. “Buckeye’s gonna get neutered soon. Wanna take yours too?”

Captain America chuckles and shakes his head, blue eyes twinkling at the hand on your hip. “You know, that smart mouth o’ yours is gonna get you into trouble one day.” You gulp as you pour the water suddenly aware that there is a real, live, broad-as-hell man standing in your living room and looking at you like you’re _somebody_... and he called your mouth _smart_.

You’re also suddenly aware that you look like shit and your hand shakes a little when you place the filter over the top of the floating coffee grinds.

“Fuck, I think I’m already in trouble.” You mutter into your shoulder as you turn.

Steve doesn’t catch the comment and digs his hand into his back pocket, producing the phone you’ve been missing since last night. You sigh in relief when you see it- as good as it was before, partially cracked screen, but still working. It’s warm when he puts it in your hand and you automatically pull a face.

“ _Butt_ heat. I mean--- hot! Hot ass!—Oh, damn it.”

You shut your eyes and the world feels like it’s stopped spinning altogether. Please god, you think, please let him be gone when you look again because you don’t think you can stand another minute on this Earth. Damn your stupid no-filter _smart mouth_.

He’s still there, though, because life is so stupid and whatever creator that exist hates you. His left eyebrow is raised, and he’s crossed his arms over his chest, smirking.

“You need to brush up on your compliments.”

“Not a compliment!” You hiss, “Don’t put people’s phones in your back pocket! You’re too fucking big to be sitting on them. But _thank you_ for giving it back.”

Steve laughs as you push the filter down on the French press. He’s saying something about how Bucky wanted to put his hand through the device, but your ears are ringing too loudly to hear him. You feel relieved anyway, because you think that you’ve reached your quip-quota for the day.

You pour yourself a cup and he puts his hands up to stop you, excusing himself-- somewhere to be, some old lady to save, he says. You fumble around a bottom cabinet for a second before pulling out a thermos and dumping the rest of the press’ coffee into it.

“Since you _did_ hand-deliver my phone to me, it’s the least I can do. It’s blue, too. Complements your eyes.”

He smiles and takes the thermos from you. “ _That_ was a good compliment.” He says, all twinkly again.

“Com _ple_ ment, not com _pli_ ment.” You correct bluntly.

He takes two steps to the door before turning, “No, the com _pli_ ment was that you noticed my eyes at all.” He laughs when your face scrunches up, miffed. Captain America was a real … sonuvabitch. “By the way... I left you a number for a dogsitter, just in case you need one.” You rotate the flat rectangle of your phone against your chest as he yanks the door open. “It’s a good service. Reliable. And they text, too.”

And just like that, he’s gone. You stare at Buckeye, who whines pathetically at the door.

You cock your head, looking at the time on the splintered screen. _Might as well_ , you think, reading 7:15 flashing back at you. You could make it to campus by 9.

The meeting drags on with your advisor, and it’s almost noon before you realize that you’re going to get hauled into another one of those pop-up seminars the faculty has been putting on all year. You’ve managed to avoid two because there’s just no fucking time to go! How are they expecting you to finish your thesis, go to class, grade a hundred stupid student papers, hold office hours, respond to a thousand e-mails a day, _and_ keep your sanity?

It’s something you’re eager to complain to your therapist about any time she starts asking about your personal life. Which, you’ve been dodging re-scheduling recently. Shit.

You calculate the hours you’ll be away as you sip room-temperature coffee from a fuzzy paper cup. It’ll be another four hours before you can make it home and Buckeye _really_ needs to go outside and have his bandages changed before then. _Shit_.

Your thumbprint opens the home screen and you scroll through your contacts, searching for that aforementioned “reliable” dogsitter. You hope to hell they’re also immediately available as you part a crowd of undergraduates to exit the building. Tapping the message bubble button, you open up a new thread.

You: _Hello. I was referred to your services by a friend. Are you available today by any chance?_

Your phone almost immediately vibrates back and you sigh in relief.

Dogsitter: _That was fast._

You’re confused, but another response pops up again.

Dogsitter: _What time do you need me to come by? And for how long?_

You: _ASAP? If that’s okay? Um. My dog is really fine on his own, but he’s been in an accident and I need him to have his bandages changed and given medicine. Also, he needs to be taken for a potty-break._

Dogsitter: _Potty break, medicine, bandages. Got it…. And what about your key?_

You: _Yeah, I’ll send you my location for my key. What are your rates by the way?_

You open up your map and set the pin to your location before sharing it with the dogsitter. It feels _way_ too good to be true, but you’re a little crunched for time and even if he’s a crazy serial killer, you’ve got a _pit bull_ and nothing of value in your apartment. You feel pretty secure.

The attempt to share your coordinates is rejected and you close the notification. Your phone buzzes in your hand again.

Dogsitter: _My rates really depend on the dog… and shouldn’t you be asking for my name, or some identifying marker to recognize me by before I show up and take your_ [1/2]

You stare blankly at the green speech cloud. What the hell… even twitter updated its character count to 280… who the hell is living so far in the past… before you can finish your thought, the following green balloon appears.

Dogsitter: _house key? Stranger danger, ma’am_. [2/2]

All the right gears start clicking in your brain and suddenly two perfect pieces of the puzzle fits together. The mystifying black shadow on the other end of the line begins to come into view.

You: _….Steve... Roberts?_

Dogsitter: _Rogers!_

The sound that erupts from your mouth is inhumanly pathetic, a mixture of a groan and a whine. Who did you piss off in your last life to be this cursed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh I've been sitting on this one for so long. I swear I'll finish my other works eventually too. (crying)  
> Let me know what you think! I am trying my hand at some humor-- mostly at Bucky's expense.


	2. Of cinnamon rolls and Soldats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple of months pass-- making friends as an adult is weird. But, everyone loves your dog, so it's fine! Really, it's fine!

“You’re serious?” Bucky grumbles as Steve happily struts towards the door of their apartment—elbows bent, arms swinging, giddy whistling and all. “A dog?”

Steve shrugs as he leans against the door, picking his key ring from the hooks on the wall and twirling it annoyingly around his pointer finger. Bucky pours himself a glass of orange juice and eyes the bottle of vodka on their alcohol rack. He curses the serum because a screwdriver would definitely lift his mood. Steve insists on keeping liquor on hand at all times just in case they host any get togethers… which, for the last six months of living together, they’ve had only one. Sometimes Bucky drinks it straight from the bottle when Steve’s not looking just because he _really_ misses it.

“Come on, Buck. World’s not ending any time soon. We’re on the most prolonged break yet. I wanna hang out with a dog!”

As if to add insult to injury— because Steve sort of just said that he prioritizes a _dog_ over Bucky, he mumbles, “It’s not like _you’re_ gonna let me get one.”

Bucky rolls his eyes for the millionth time since this request has come up. “ _You’re_ the dog. I don’t want another.” He crosses his arms, “Go, then. Get bitten for all I care.”

Steve swings his key ring around his finger and winks at Buck from the door. “I’ll be sure to let her know you say hi! And that you’re wondering how she’s doin’”

Bucky stiffens as the door slips shut— Steve’s laughter echoing down the hallway all the while.

-

He meets you outside of the campus Starbucks and catches the key ring you fling at him. Your hair is neatly braided, save for a few strands dangling over your face. You’re wearing fitted pinstripe trousers and a loose pale blue button up, tucked in haphazardly.

“Thanks! Just put it under the mat when you’re done! You got Venmo? I’ll Venmo you!” You screech before ducking into a crowd of confused undergraduate students and disappearing out of his view. Steve whistles lowly because your disappearing act could give Natasha a run for her money.

Happy, regardless, Steve spins the ring around his pointer finger and heads back to his motorcycle.

-

It’s almost three by the time you get back to your apartment, slick with sweat. The walk from the bus stop isn’t long, by any means, but you might be the sweatiest person you know, so the beads that drip into your eyes aren’t necessarily unexpected.

What _is_ unexpected is that your keys are _not_ under the mat, like you had instructed Captain America—who has now bewilderingly become your dogsitter, you suppose. Staring at the glossy turquoise paint of your apartment door, you stick your hand in your purse to rummage around for your phone. Suddenly, a bark from the other side startles you and you drop the device back into the gaping mouth of your bag.

A voice follows, shooting off a foreign command before a few more voices cheer as the barking subsides.

The door swings open and you anxiously step into your _own damn apartment_ to three pairs of varying shades of blue eyes, all set in their own expressions. Your own eyes are wide-open, unblinking, possibly twitching – damn that giveaway left eyelid.

“Hello.” Blue eyes number one meets you at the front walkway.

You know her, and although you’re more familiar with her in red, the new blonde ‘do doesn’t take away from the terrifyingly calm energy she exudes. The smile on her lips says “Welcome” but the stare says, “Give me your social security number”

Part of you wants to squeal because you are a massive Black Widow fangirl because you don’t know if you want her or if you want to _be_ her ( _Hello!_ She kicks ass _and_ looks hot in leather?). But seeing her now, manifested at your door, staring at you like you’re chopped liver makes you refrain from professing your undying love. You gulp uneasily.

“Sorry about all the extra company!” Steve yelps from the floor when Buckeye gives his cheek an extra sloppy lick, “Time slipped from me. Natasha was in the neighborhood and I suggested she swing by to meet this good boy.”

Your dog crawls into his lap as if he’s not—Oh! Well, he sort of fits perfectly in those enormous legs. Even folded, Captain America’s lap is the size of a small table and Buckeye peers at you from beneath the white cone, chin perched on the corner of Steve’s knee.

“Uh, yeah that’s cool.” You mutter, shutting the door behind you, advancing carefully under Natasha’s gaze as she walks backwards into the living room. Finally, she plops down on the couch next to Bucky, who doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything any time soon. You’re surprised he’s back because he was two seconds away from crazy-murdering you last night and spitting on your grave.

“Still mad I licked your hand?” You call to him airily. Almost immediately, you can see all the hairs on his neck raise like an untamed cat caught unawares and Natasha whips around to give him a look of surprise.

“I swear to God…” he mutters, pressing his hand against his forehead because he already regrets that last minute blurt of accompanying Steve, and you are _not helping._ “Just _one_ more. One more fuckin’ comment from you…”

You have about enough self-preservation as a lemming, so naturally you don’t even _hear_ his threat.

“I thought I was doin’ you a favor, y’know, getting the wank-palm ready. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Steve whistles like a tea kettle as he tries to stifle his laughter and has to literally hold onto your dog to keep himself from pitching over. Buckeye loves it, because he pants along to each quiver of the Captain’s chest as he gasps for breath. Natasha pats the metal of Bucky’s arm.

“He’s right-handed.” She says nonchalantly.

“Oh.” You reply, “Well, cup the balls with it for all I care.”

Steve shoots up the same time Bucky does, and he steadies your dog with both his hands. “Hey!” He laughs nervously, “Come take Buckeye out with me for a minute! We’ll be back! Enough time for everyone to _calm_ down _._ ” 

He hooks Buckeye’s leash on and pushes his own Bucky out the door as quickly as they both can go. As he passes you, Bucky snarls, showing you all four of his canines— and you smile sweetly at him to veil the incoming sensation of nervous sweating. Steve shoves him roughly forward while leaning over against your cheek. _That_ makes you sweat _immediately_.

“What did I say about that smart mouth!?” Steve whispers harshly before stepping out. Your dog trots out behind them, happy as can be.

Natasha pats the warm seat beside her where Bucky used to be and smiles at you until you slide in next to her.

“I’ll make it quick,” She begins, “I don’t know what funny little goose chase Rogers is on this time, but he’s taken a liking to you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Uh…”

She continues, despite your very graceful response and the flare that heats your face a thousand degrees hotter.

“He’s got some idea to take a superhero sabbatical. You planning any summer vacations? Maybe to 7344 Sunnywaters Drive? Cincinnati?”

You gulp. “Y-yeah, actually.” The sweat Steve’s proximity drew from you is nothing compared to Natasha clocking your parents’ address as an offhanded threat _in your own damn home_. You’re too scared to even wipe the moisture from your brow.

“Cool. Keep in touch.” Then, as if she’s handing you the remote, Natasha flings your phone into your lap and you fumble with it like a live grenade before clasping both palms over the thing. She’s already at the door, one hand on her hip before sending a wink back at you. “That’s between us girls. I’m your one-stop shop for boy trouble, understand?”

You nod your head vigorously and Natasha smiles at you again, a sweet peel of her peach lips back to reveal her teeth, just the same as Bucky. Then, like a dream, she’s disappeared out the door. A whine escapes your lips as you stare at the newly added contact: Nat.

You don’t even want to think about how she pulled the thing out of your purse and put herself in it without you noticing and frankly, the thought of her physically that close to you makes your legs _weak_.

Apparently, Captain America wants to retire with his trusty murderous sidekick and he’s looking at you to show him a good time. You pull your backpack into your lap and wrap your arms around the four books you’ve checked out of the library. You still owe your professor a paper, and your cohort-mates a drink some time this week. When, oh when, are you going to have time to have a mental breakdown?

Certainly not now, as two Super Soldiers stomp their way back into your apartment.

“Dude, I got downstairs neighbors.” You mutter dejectedly, sliding the bag onto the floor.

Steve apologizes and starts to tiptoe like a ballerina. Bucky, the saint, firmly slams one foot down and the entire building seems to shake. Buckeye hops up onto the couch at the noise, and the length of his leash twists around Steve’s ankles and trips him.

Right across the couch. His head falls into the cushion of your lap before he bounces himself off with a gasp.

“You gotta be kidding me.” You say as Steve pitches backward onto the floor and the apartment shakes once again with the strength of a 7.4 magnitude earthquake. All emotion has drained from you as you hold onto the couch like a lifesaver. These stupid superheroes are going to get you kicked out of your apartment and you can’t afford rent anywhere else, god damn it. Steve lies plank-like on the carpet, wincing at the commotion.

Bucky, on the other hand, cackles gleefully— the happiest you’ve ever seen him, ever. It makes you freeze as you stare at the oddity of the smile on his face. He’s never smiled on any television broadcast you’ve witnessed and even against the loop in the Smithsonian, this one knocks it out of the park. At the end of his maniacal tittering is a strangely mystifying chuckle, topped off by a lingering lopsided little smirk as he wipes the corner of his eye. His cheeks are flushed pink and the threads of hair that dangle over his features make him look all the more… handsome? _No_ …!

“What?” Bucky snaps as he catches you looking.

“Nothing!” You shriek back, pretending to busy yourself with pulling your hair from its braided confines. The waves slip out of your elastic chaotically and you brush through them with your fingers, letting your face be obscured by your tresses. “I uh… I gotta do some.. writing.” You admit quietly.

It’s nearly four, and the books in your bag are _not_ reading themselves.

“Oops, sorry, we’ll get out of your hair.” Steve grins at the waves over your face, “Get it?” and you roll your eyes dramatically at him.

“Please fucking leave.” You grunt. And they do, heading to the exit after Steve gives your pup a good double-eared rub. Suddenly, you remember, “Wait! Shit! Hey what do I owe you for today?”

You fumble around in your purse but Rogers crosses his arms and leans against the door frame, nearly as wide as the damn thing itself. Bucky raises an eyebrow next to him, “Why’re you diggin’ round in there like you got any money?” He asks.

“I fucking hate you.” You whisper dejectedly.

His leering smirk is back full force as he returns one of your own to you, “Feeling’s mutual, _princess.”_

You take it way back, like back to prehistoric times—no, back to The Goddamn Mesozoic Era-- and bury it there. Bucky Barnes, handsome? You’d rather eat shit.

“Don’t worry bout it.” Steve smiles, “As long as I can spend time with this good boy, we can call it even.”

You frown. “You… like, wanna dogsit for free?”

“Mhm.”

If this was a nightmare or some sick simulation that a sadistic deity was placing you in, _fuck it_ , what can you do? It feels like a bad way to make a new friend but at the very least you have new friend? You’re trying to peer towards the brighter sides of this whole thing. 

An Avenger wants to hang out in your apartment and take care of your sick dog? There goes the possibility of potential muggings! Maybe you’d get held hostage again briefly, but Bucky will just shoot them in the face like last night. Imagine how much free time that’d give you to finish your paper!

You dig back around in your purse, finding the tiny little zip pocket and fling a loose key towards the door. Bucky snatches it before Steve can, in an almost protective gesture.

“That’s my spare. Knock yourself out, my man.” You say cheerily. Steve takes it from Bucky and grins at you before they both leave.

They’re back in a couple of days, Steve politely texting you ahead of time as you’re perched on the kitchen counter waiting for your leftovers from…who knows when to warm up. You unlock the door and return to your post.

Steve immediately fawns over Buckeye, who returns the affection. They roll around on the floor together and you frankly start feeling like you have _two_ dogs. And then the image of Captain America as a stupid Golden Retriever sears itself into your brain. You shake it from your head, bewildered, but you can’t help glancing back over at the way he spools over the floor with his knees bent and mouth open.

Opening your mouth, you begin to comment but it shuts itself when Bucky saunters into your kitchen and sticks his head in your refrigerator. He drinks the last soda you were saving before stepping across from you and leaning back on the counter with an antagonistic smirk.

Yep. You still hate him. You wonder why he’s even here since the feeling is _so, so_ mutual.

“Sooooo….” You sing quietly as a different thought flits across your mind, taking one hand and gesturing from Bucky to Steve, who is now playing tug-o-war with Buckeye. Your wrist flicks a few times back and forth. “You guys like, fuckin’? Or what?”

The hand that’s holding onto your marble counter slips slightly and Bucky stumbles before catching himself. It wouldn’t take very much for that same hand to shatter your jaw, he thinks, because what kind of person just _says that_!?

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Do you have any sense at all?” Bucky grumbles under his breath, “Or do you just _love_ flirting with death this much?”

You blow a raspberry at him, “Pfft. Presumptuous of you to one: call yourself death, and two: suggest I’m flirting.” Bucky snarls in reply, and you think you could get used to this kind of banter.

From the living room, you hear Steve pat his knees, “Hey!” he calls, not missing a beat, “You guys _flirting_ in there!?”

-

“Soooo….” You intone again a week later, when Steve volunteers to take Buckeye out for a break and you’re stuck watching T.V. with Bucky, book and post-it notes in your lap.

“I swear, if you ask me one more time if Stevie and I are fucking, I will kick your ass so hard your damn vertebrae will pop out of your mouth like a Pez dispenser.”

“ _Stevie?_ Oh…” You mutter, “So, y’all in _love,_ love.”

His metal fingers flex against his thigh and you whistle innocently when _Stevie_ returns.

You smile. The blonde smiles back. Bucky’s hand whirrs menacingly on the other side of the couch.

\--

Almost two months pass of these habits—Steve coming over, usually with Bucky in tow and they lounge around your apartment like they live here while you sit with your tablet and crank out as many e-mails as you can in their presence.

At this point in time, you practically think of them as your extremely annoying roommates because that’s what they act like. Sometimes you eat sad dinners together, consisting of Frankenstein’s-Monster-level sandwiches of things you find in your fridge—but after the second instance of that happening, Steve began to bring over groceries every time he came by. You had thanked him. Then you proceeded to create other abominations with his produce.

In the beginning, it was tough; there were constant distractions as they navigated how to behave around you and vice-versa. Endless quips and insults and threats, primarily between you and Bucky while Steve watched helplessly. Eventually, it died down somewhat, and although you thoroughly enjoyed making fun of him, Bucky was just as much an appreciated fixture as Steve was.

Besides, you had other things to do than make his life miserable—more miserable, you hope, because you hope his life is _already_ miserable, that smug, trash-panda-looking bastard.

Once, Bucky thought it was curious when he hurled an insult at you but there was only silence. Even Steve looked over, but you were buried with work, balancing a book on each knee as you sat cross-legged, typing furiously, head turning from one side to the other as you read at the same time.

It reminded Steve of Tony. Bucky stilled and quirked his head to the side, almost impressed—not that he would ever admit that anything you did was impressive to him.

Fifteen minutes later, you finally replied—a half-hearted rudeness that had nothing to do with what he said in the first place.

He laughed then, boisterous, almost hysterically when you glued your eyes back to the screen and smiled absently.

“Alright, kid. We’ll leave you to your work.” He said, “Let’s get outta here, Stevie.”

“Ooooh, _Stevie_ ,” You squealed mockingly, “Hey---“ a grin had passed over your face and before you could ask exactly what they both knew you were going to ask, Bucky leapt over the couch and put you in a headlock.

“I’m gonna kill you!” He snarled.

Buckeye barked, alert and worried as you yelped, head stuck in his arm. Captain America leapt gallantly to his feet, hands out ready to diffuse the tension, but when you started giggling and tapped playfully on Bucky—who _laughed,_ goddamn it— _laughed_ , Rogers sat back down with a knowing grin.

Although the topic of their bond was a running gag at this point, it was still on your mind from time to time as you carried on with your daily life. Classes were coming to an end, and this would be the first summer in a while when you wouldn’t be taking a course—instead only TA-ing for an online class. You suppose it would only take you a couple of hours a day if you timed your schedule correctly. Balancing your schoolwork, other friendships, and the Super Soldier Chaos Idiot Duo had been surprisingly easy, considering that they were relatively low-maintenance and didn’t want anything other than to be in your company.

They help you out quite a lot, especially Steve, who you swear to God, just fucking _loves dogs_. At least twice a week he comes and either takes Buckeye on an extended walk (an hour _minimum_ ), or takes him to the dog park and they both come home completely exhausted and sprawl out on the floor while you fan them with a spare newspaper, trying not to stare at the way his chest rises and falls, nearly bursting out of his drenched t-shirt.

Not that you were crushing on Captain America, your sort-of dogsitter-slash-friend, but that you were a human being with two working eyes. Because, _good googly-moogly, that ass is juicy_.

Following that train of thought brought you back to Steve and Bucky’s possible relationship. So, for the first time since you’d been blessed with the Deus ex Machina itself, you had texted Natasha-- showcasing the best parts of your winning personality to her.

 _You_ : _Hey… uh, weird question but… these boys fuckin’ or nah?_

The grey ellipses appeared immediately.

_Nat: Interesting question. And not my business. Ask them._

_You: “One-stop shop”, my ass._

She didn’t dignify your grouching with a reply. But you took her advice anyway, and asked Steve, who proceeded to clap his hands together loudly.

“We’re partners!”

He beamed then, like that shed _any_ light at all on what you were pondering. Partners also meant like, the team-up-together-and-kick-ass kind of thing. Part of you had thought that he did that on purpose, but…whatever.

You wanted to remain on the safe side of Bucky’s possible wrath, so you keep the staring at Steve thing to a minimum and then eventually, you stopped altogether.

Tonight, however, something new is happening—new in your life, and new for Steve and Bucky too, as they step into your apartment and freeze when you emerge from the hallway. You had called and asked for a dogsitting session for a couple of hours, which happens from time to time when you’d go out with friends, but this was different.

“Hey.” You greet as you scurry around, looking for something. Steve busies himself stroking Buckeye’s back but watches as you nervously scramble around like a gerbil, flinging the couch cushions and throw pillows onto the floor.

“Lookin’ for these?” Bucky asks, gingerly placing his hand forward with your keychain dangling from his fingertips.

“Oh shit, where’d you find ‘em? I’ve been looking _everywhere_.”

“They were on the hook, like always.” He responds slowly, eyeing you up and down like you were sprouting another head.

It’s almost as jarring, actually. You greet them every single time in swaggy Ohio gear, shorts and a tee, or your semi-formal work clothes, but today, two months into their weird little friendship with you, you’re wearing a dress. Bucky squints as they both take a seat because he thinks it looks like you’ve put on lipstick.

“The fuck’re you lookin at? Wait--is it on my teeth? Son of a bitch, I always get it on my teeth.”

“Yes.” Bucky deadpans.

“No!” Steve corrects and slaps him on the chest. “You… uh, look nice.” He says as you pick up your purse and dig around in it before realizing your phone is already in your hand.

“Huh?” You ask, genuinely not hearing his compliment from all the blood pounding in your ears. They watch you slip on combat boots and pick at your eyelashes for a second before you anxiously walk over to where they lounge on the couch. “S-so… I’m… going on a date.” You admit quietly.

Steve quirks an eyebrow. Bucky folds his arms.

“Okay. Normally I would never ask you guys—especially not _you_ ,” You sneer at Bucky who rolls his eyes, “But… I have not been on a date in _quite_ a long time—hooo boy, I don’t even know what a man is like anymore, honestly.” You blather as Steve looks incredulously to Bucky and them at himself as he gestures obviously to their very masculine physique. “Okay, but like—not you guys.” You add quickly.

“What the hell does that mean?” Bucky doesn’t know why he’s offended, but he is.

“You’re _men_ , fine! Yes. Technically!” He scrunches his face even more as you continue to ramble, “But like, this is a _man_! Like, a human? Y’know? A person who could _like_ me! Ah shit, I’m just anxious, you dick!” You screech, “All I wanted to ask was like—you know!” You sway from side to side mechanically, waving your hand in front of your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, “Do I look okay!?”

Maybe instead of going on the date, you could just drop dead right here, you think. A literal minute of silence passes and you stop feeling embarrassed and start getting angry, foot tapping against the carpet. “Am I invisible?” You throw your hands up.

 _No_ , Steve thinks as he digs around for the right thing to say. You are unquestionably _not_ invisible, because he’s been looking at you for the better part of two months now and he definitely has some words for this instance. His eyes move over your exposed shoulders and down the soft material of the dress that seems to be contouring your body before they stop at the dress’ hem—at the middle of your thighs.

“Kinda short.” Bucky blurts.

“Kinda the point.” You mutter, “I want this guy to _like me_ , remember?”

“Good luck.” Bucky snorts, “Not with _that_ mouth.”

A sly smile spreads over your face because the comeback you have is rated NC-17 and you’re ready to spew it all over him but Steve shakes his head sharply and you shut up with a sigh. Mood killer. You pat your thigh and briefly bend over to snuggle with Buckeye while Steve surveys your streaming subscriptions. He’s started on a new sci-fi show at Natasha’s suggestion and he and Bucky have recently left off on a cliffhanger. It seems to be a good place to distract himself from the peculiar direction this night is heading down.

“Love you sooooo much!” You squeal, rubbing your forehead against your dog’s velvety grey skin, lowering your voice into a silly warbly pitch “Yeah, that’s my Big Bucko! Uh-huh, good boy. Who’s the best boy? You’re the best boy!”

From beside him, Bucky lets out what sounds like a puff of annoyed air.

You fix yourself and stand up, parting with a final kiss on his head, “Wish me luck, Buckaroo.” Then you imitate guns with your fingers and point at Steve and Bucky a few times, as if firing, “Alright, suckers. I’m out. I’ll let you know all about it in a couple of hours.”

And just like that, you’re gone, keys jangling all the way.

Steve clicks play on the next episode of the show and Buckeye settles by his feet, nestled comfortably between his and Bucky’s legs. The opening theme starts as they sit in silence, thinking over the last ten minutes.

Bucky speaks first.

“I’m gonna kill her.” He mutters plainly. At this point, it’s a reflexive statement to show his disapproval of whatever it is that you’ve done. Steve seems to agree as he nods slowly before taking a deep breath.

“I think I’m gonna kill the guy.”

Bucky lets out a string of laughs as he grabs his sides and leans back on the couch because he knows it’s a joke, but Steve is _never_ this protective, nor does he threaten civilians lightly. When Bucky turns his head to regard his _partner_ , the look on Steve’s face is a wry one—half tilted smile, furrowed brows.

“C’mon Stevie. Girl’s just trying to live.”

“Wow, you’re defending her? Oh, Buck, you’re in deep, aren’t you?” Steve teases as he reaches over to ruffle Bucky’s hair. He knows, just by being with Bucky all these years that their feelings for you are mutual. He had called it day one as he followed you through the wet grass of the complex—Steve knows what Bucky likes, and he knows full well that Bucky likes _you_.

“Shaddup, Rogers.” Bucky grunts. But now that it’s just the two of them in the apartment, the crotchety ill-tempered façade slips off and a smile glides over his lips. “She’s a brat.” He mutters, but stretches his arm across to rest it on Steve anyway.

Their personas are defined: Steve is good cop, Bucky is bad cop. Steve is a Golden, Bucky is a wolf. They fit their roles well because it does fit who they are, but when it comes to private matters, Bucky understands that Steve runs the show. And Bucky always lets Steve do what he wants. It’s annoying sometimes, when he gets himself a stupid new hobby and falls down a rabbit hole of some obscure ancient coin-collecting or whatever else he gets into.

His latest endeavor for the last two months since his so-called retirement, had been meeting every fucking dog in Manhattan until he met you. And then it was a two-for-one-combo, Bucky thinks. But Bucky loves happy Steve, so he let him become your friend.

From next to him, Steve pretends to pay attention to the show—not that it isn’t enthralling, but he has other things on his mind. Bucky’s quieted, far-away look in his eyes and Steve knows it’s because he’s lost in thought, trying to analyze this situation—trying to analyze Steve.

But Steve Rogers’ intentions are simple, as they’ve always been: make Bucky happy. And in the last two months since that fateful night, scraped knees, Ohio Fight song and all—Bucky has been.

Steve’s a shit, and Bucky loves Steve. You’re also a shit. So naturally.... Steve thinks, _well_...!

The episode drones on in the background, already close to finished. An hour has passed and they hadn’t even noticed.

They sit there, eyes glazed over, occasionally flicking each other and grabbing one another’s hand, deep in thought of affections for each other until quite suddenly, the door flies open and you stomp in, hair in disarray.

Two heads jerk over to the doorway where you kick off your boots with a snarl, steadying yourself with your palm against the wall before slumping to the ground and greeting Buckeye with outstretched arms.

Bucky is about to comment on the briefness of the date, but you’re curled up into a ball over your dog’s back as his tail whips happily against your side. You’re whispering and kissing him rapidly over and over like machinegun fire. “Buckeye!” You cry, “What kind of stupid motherfucker! I can’t believe that piece of shit. How dare he!” You rub your face against your dog, glaring at the ground.

Steve and Bucky exchange looks.

“Are you drunk?” Bucky asks.

“Yes!” You yell, moving so that you’re slightly squatting. The two men tilt their head at your stance before they watch you slowly lift Buckyeye in your arms. You shake slightly and take a step forward, the hem of your dress peeling up against his bottom as he slides to one side.

He doesn’t notice at all, and continues flapping his tail as you teeter around the front entrance.

“Look at this fuckin’ cinnamon roll!” You cry, smashing your face against his neck, the rest of your words coming out muffled into his fur, “Does he look fuckin’ _dangerous_?!”

“No!” You answer your own question, taking another step forward, “He’s _not!_ He is! A! Good! Boy!” Another step is taken. Steve and Bucky press themselves against the couch as you tread towards them menacingly.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Bucky demands when you begin to sniffle because it is freaking him out that you even have a sad setting on your range of emotions. More than anything, it’s freaking him out that you’re showing it to him.

“Would you call—“ You ask, standing him front of him, hips leaned forward to help distribute the now 55 pounds of muscle that is your dog over your body so that your arms don’t suffer too much tomorrow, “Would you call this precious, lovable— a little traumatized, sure—baby—“ You sniff again, “Would you call him _vicious_?” You hiss. Bucky opens his mouth but you disrupt him again.

“Would you call _this good boy_ , a _killer_?!”

Bucky grunts when you throw your dog onto his lap. “Look at him!” Long, wet licks are applied everywhere to Bucky’s grimace as your dog’s tongue finds this an opportune moment to clobber Bucky with kisses. In the two months that he’s hung around, Buckeye has rarely had this close of encounters with Bucky. Usually it’s Steve who gets his attention, and the silver-armed man is just someone who sort-of looks at him. As a dog, he’d rather play with the person who lies down on the floor and rolls.

“What the—god damn it!” Bucky dodges left and right, but the tongue even goes right into his eyeball. Finally gets to rest as Steve motions your dog over to lie down in the middle, resting his bum on Bucky’s lap and his face on Steve’s knee.

You crumble onto the floor on your knees, throwing your arms over Buckeye’s back and pressing your cheek against him, looking up at Steve.

“Can you believe it? This guy… this guy called Pit Bulls _killers_. He called me a dumb bitch for getting a Pit because they’re all vicious and should be put down and eradicated. I got so fucking mad at him, I threw both our drinks in his face. I hate this fucking city—everybody’s a goddamn asshole.” You quiet considerably as Steve puts his hand on your shoulder. He knows how touchy you are when it comes to misconceptions about your pet, because he knows you’ve worked hard to rehabilitate him since his adoption. And Steve has witnessed first-hand just how mild Buckeye actually is.

He might look big and intimidating, now at 10 months and massive, but he plays peacefully with other dogs every time they go to the park, and he lets strangers pet him no sweat. Every time.

Steve steals a look across the couch where his own rehabilitated _Soldat_ stares ahead calmly.

As if understanding the situation, Buckeye whines pitifully and rubs his wet nose against your cheek. A quiet moment passes before the other side of the couch shifts and Bucky sits up.

“What’s the motherfucker’s name?” He asks cooly.

“Buck…” Steve warns.

“No, no. I’m not gonna do anythin’ to him. His tires, though, different story.”

You laugh and sit up finally, make up a little smudged from your tears. “Nah. He’s not worth it. A lot of people in Manhattan aren’t very dog-friendly anyway. I bet he doesn’t even fuck with Labs, y’know?” You scratch the bridge of your nose before looking up at the two sitting above you.

Steve to your left, head tilted slightly with a sympathetic smile. Bucky to your right, mouth set in that characteristic scowl of his as he waits for you to say something stupid—as always. And you sort of do.

“I’m going back to Ohio for a week. We have an extra room and lots of space—wanna come?” It rushes out in a slurry of syllables before your drunk brain interrupts yet again as you pull yourself up and push Buckeye until he’s on the other side of Steve. Then, you flop down on the couch in-between them, kicking your feet on top of the coffee table. “Anyway, what are you guys watching? Ew—is that thing giving birth? Fuckin’ gross.”

And then you’re asleep, the smell of vodka lingering over your head as it tilts backwards and the couch cushion sinks to cradle your skull. Steve shakes his head and puts Buckeye on the leash, taking him out for one final potty break before they leave to go home now that you’re wandering dreamland and gestating a hangover.

He returns to Bucky standing over your sleeping body on the couch, carefully tucked in from the blanket on your bed—pillow under your head and all. Steve says nothing as Bucky crosses his arms and looks at you with an odd grimace, like he’s trying to figure something out. Quietly, he heads to the door and pats your dog gently.

Steve Rogers takes out your spare key and turns off the light with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Quite a lot happened this chapter, but the next one will see a return to the reader's thoughts. This was totally necessary as an investigation into Steve's motives, that scheming punk.


	3. On the Road, and Off the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three of you travel to Cincy where they find out a lot more about you and your family.

A heavy weight on your stomach wakes you up the next morning. Buckeye has climbed onto the couch and over your body, placing his chin right on your sternum. His tail whacks against your propped-up foot as you begin to stir, and he plants a wet good morning kiss with his nose right over your mouth.

“Ah!” You cry, wiping it off with the back of your hand, “Geez!” He does it again and you can’t help but laugh, even though it’s cold and slimy. He looks pleased as punch as he flops his head back on your chest and stares lovingly into your eyes. Yes, you think, only an animal can love you in the morning. Eye crusts, dragon breath, and all. Stupid big-ass dog makes you soft and gooey.

“C’mon. Off.” You pretend to be annoyed and he slides onto the floor with a whine and follows you into the restroom as you brush your teeth.

Taking in the damage to your apartment— which is none at all, you figure it ended well last night. There’s a memory of you throwing vodka at Tinder-Date-Dickhead and then taking an Uber home. Good call on not driving, you pat yourself on the back and take Bucky outside.

Three alerts are on top of the speech bubble when you get a chance to look at your phone afterwards. Natasha. Steve.

Nat: _Sunnywaters?_

You heave a sigh and reply _: Dude stop threatening me._

Then, you open the other message.

Steve: _You up? Buck and I are packing— swimsuits? Yes or no? Also Cincinnati has its own Coney Island… ha ha ha very funny. I bet it stinks compared to the [1/2]_

_Steve: “real” Coney. Do your parents know we’re coming? I’d hate to intrude. [2/2]_

You punch the green call button and rush back inside, scaring Buckeye a little with your sudden frantic movements.

“Good morning!” Steve’s voice sounds like a firecracker. And then he’s popping off in your ear, “Did you get my messages? Bucky and I are happy to stay in a hotel or something – called aerobean? Renting a house? I’m not really sure how that works.”

“It’s called airbnb, you fossil.” You respond off-handedly before catching yourself. “Stop, stop, why are you going to Cincinnati? And what about my parents?”

“You invited us. Are we leaving … today?”

Your face drains completely of color when it hits you— a nebulous and dizzying baseball bat swing to the temple. Last night crashes back into your mind: Steve, looking down, patting sympathetically. Two arms— turning you protectively until the room is sideways. You remember the way the blanket was tucked under your chin and around your shoulders.

“…Did you— did you t-tuck me in?” You ask hesitantly. Steve makes a negative grunt on the other line.

“Buck did that. He said he thought you’d get cold.”

“Oh…. Kay….” You whisper. “Uh. How set are you on Cinci?” You cross your fingers and hope he’ll back out purely based on how pathetic you sound. “It’s a ten-hour drive, dude. You guys okay with that?”

“Sure!” Steve chirps back. “We’ll take turns driving. Although Buck’s kind of a wheel-hog. Gets nervous when he’s not in charge.”

In the distance, you hear Bucky protest and it makes your mouth go dry.

“Uh. Okay. I usually leave early so… meet me here at six tomorrow.”

You hang up and bang the back of your head against the wall. The baseball bat of memory swings again.

You think you might faint because you start to recall last night: the metal hand lifting your head and placing the pillow under your hair. You even remember telling Bucky you loved him? It’s bewildering because you certainly do _not_ love him. What was that thing that T-Pain said again? Your heart squeezes in your chest as you search around frantically for some scapegoat. Ah—yeah, T-Pain famously warbled: Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a-cohol.

Your body flies over the outfield and into the bleachers before crashing. It’s the most agonizing homerun.

Steve, you think, is probably the one skipping past bases and winking. Somehow, this is all his damn fault.

—

Buckeye scoots around the back of your car, shifting so his weight lands primarily on the cushiony bed. His head is laid gently on Bucky’s thigh, who lost to rock paper scissors and must get squished in the backseat. Lucky for him, you pack lightly, and your legs are much shorter than Steve’s. Unlucky for you, that means he’s right behind you, radiating the heat of a thousand terrifying and silent suns.

It’s been thirty minutes since you started driving. Every time you look into the rear view, Bucky’s blue eyes look back. At this point, you have no idea if any cars are behind you because you will not let yourself look again.

“This is nice.” Steve says breezily, commenting on the silence. You had barely spoken to them when they arrived, instead busied yourself with playing Tetris with your luggage and theirs as well as the fabric box of Bucky’s--- BUCKEYE’s things. God damn it.

“ _Love_ it when it’s quiet. Nothing but the road and--” Steve continues.

“Oh, shut up!” You and Bucky reply in unison. You glare up into the mirror. Bucky glares right back. The embarrassment of last night snuffs itself out. Love? In this motherfucker’s dreams.

To your side, Steve stares out the window to hide his smirk.

—

The music of your so-called Driving Playlist bumps through the car speakers. You’ve been subjecting them to your chaotic tastes for the last hour. Every new song is jarring and different than the one before it. There’s Christmas carols. Frenetic Japanese electropop. Incredibly explicit gansta rap. Something else sounds like a broken harmonica for eight whole _goddamn_ minutes. Inexplicable genres and band names. In the middle of a warbly bass line and shrieking synths, you explain that this track is from a “ _witch house"_ group you particularly enjoyed as a young girl.

The terms “witch house” and “young girl” so close together makes the both of them shudder. Steve is petrified at the end of each song because the next one always seems to be worse. Bucky squeezes his face between two fully stuffed bags and groans as loudly as he can.

—

You stop to get gas and Steve walks Buckeye around the perimeter of the station. Bucky comes out from the sliding doors holding three Gatorades and cold brew coffee.

“Drink up.” He commands, flinging a pink bottle at you. “My turn to drive.”

You shake the nozzle when it clicks off and roll your eyes. “No way.”

“You can’t even see over the steering wheel.” You flip him off and silently mock him, rolling your eyes and scrunching up your nose. Then, you replace the nozzle and head inside to use the restroom, flipping him off another time for good measure.

“Don’t! Even!” You threaten behind your shoulder. But of course, by the time you’re halfway to the door, he’s already slid in the driver’s seat.

—

The only way you would stop bitching is if Bucky let you pick the music. So, the cord remains faithfully attached to your phone. And that dreaded playlist.

—

An hour later, your leg bounces from the back, knocking your knee into Steve’s seat. You’ve had to piss like a racehorse for the last twenty minutes and you feel like a fucking water balloon, about to pop. Steve turns around, elbow on the center console and quirks an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yessssss..” you could probably weep right now. No. No thinking of tears because tears are water. No fucking water.

“You’re shaking my seat pretty rough.” Steve accuses.

“You have to go again, don’t you? Jesus, what are you, four?” You’d think about how much you hate him but your bladder requires way more attention right now. This is the best posture you’ve ever had in your entire life. Your back is straight and you’re arching forward slightly—anything to relieve the pressure.

“I’m—- Ugh!” You shriek as the car runs over something and the entire thing rocks up, kicking a sharp jab into your lower abdomen. A wave of chills runs over your arms. “Oh no…” You whisper. Buckeye perks up and begins to sniff around, investigating your concern.

“Maybe I peed a little.” You admit sheepishly, squeezing your thighs together as well as your eyes.

“The next stop isn’t for another half hour…” Steve laments.

“Dirty Keanu Reeves over here gave me Gatorade!” You shake the bottle between them, 32 empty strawberry-flavored sugar-free ounces in all it’s glory. Even the wrapping has been peeled off. Steve sends the both of you a reproachful glare.

“I didn’t think she’d guzzle the whole damn thing!” He chooses to ignore your new nickname for him. He doesn’t even know who Keanu Reeves is. It’s a shame, really.

“Oh please stop arguing please pull over I swear I’ll piss in the forest I don’t care please.” Your words are running together like a waterfall. No. Not a waterfall. Oh god, you think, do _not_ imagine any waterfalls. Bucky flips the blinker on and checks his blind spot before navigating to the right carefully. He puts on the hazards and stops your car—half on the emergency lane and half in the grass. Outside the window is about 200 feet of wildflowers before it turns dark with thick trees.

He turns and takes Steve’s place in-between the cloth seats. “There you are, _princess_. Pop a squat. Or stand. Just fucking hurry.”

“If I had a dick, Barnes, it would be _way_ bigger than yours.” You push Bucky out of the way and wiggle until you can reach the glove compartment, elbowing Steve’s face in the process. There, your fingers yank a few tissues smushed into the corner of the dusty slot and you bolt. Oh sweet six-pound-and-four-ounces Jesus Christ you’ve never been so happy to piss in the woods.

Steve pats Bucky’s thigh as they watch you shred through the white and orange stalks, ripping a path through the peaceful country green. “Nah, Buck.” He smiles, “You’re pretty big.” Bucky slams the back of his head into the seat and lets out a long-suffering groan.

When you come back you fly into the car and moan happily. Bucky turns around to give you a snarky comment, but you hiss at him like an angry wildcat. “Saw a dead possum in the woods, man.” You say, “Looks just like you.”

—

Both you and Steve are asleep, along with the dog. It’s been a little over an hour now. The Captain reclines in the passenger seat, sunglasses on. You’re pitched over Buckeye, head resting on your splayed arm. The three orders of family-sized burger meals knocked you out first, then Steve. There’s hardly any room in the car for the enormous amount of trash that entailed, but you made do with the space next to your leg and stuffed the bag between you and the door.

Bucky slurps his coffee and drives in silence, frowning when the idea that he misses your bullshit finds him.

—

“God, can we listen to anything else?” Bucky grumbles when some mindless tune comes back on. You smile because Rebecca Black’s “Friday” is your goddamn jam. It’s the single best song to piss off any living person or animal and you embrace it whole-heartedly.

You let Steve browse the rest of your selection, waiting patiently for the inevitable—

“What is this?” He yelps. “ _Gay for Jesus?_ ” His fingers continue to scroll, “What kind of playlist names are these? _Sad n Sexy Santa? Who’s got the Biggest Dick in Baseball?”_ You’re cackling madly. It doesn’t stop there. “ _Fingerblast Fest of 2017?”_

“What does that even mean?” Bucky mutters.

“Made it for a lesbian couple. Anniversary present.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up with confusion and you enlighten him by leaning forward and thrusting two fingers back and forth so vigorously his seat shakes like an industrial-sized dryer set on high.

“Oh fuckin’ A!” He cries, jerking his head away from your hand. Steve turns red as a beet. “Okay, new rule...” he sighs, turning your phone over on his lap, “Do _not_ ask about playlist names.”

—

Traffic has clogged up the highway. It’s deadlocked and immobile, stuck in the middle of a big city—all smog and industry. There’s not even good scenery to look at. You are buried in-between the pages of a book, taking advantage of the stillness by reading as much as you can. After this, you’ll have to brush up on your Latin, too. Then Greek. It’s annoying, but at least you don’t have to do another summer immersion program somewhere in bumfuck Florida this year.

A folky tune comes on and it’s a welcome reprieve. Bucky and Steve look up when you start humming along, voice coming out to follow the melody.

“Didn’t know you could sing.” Steve comments.

“Habeo multum talenta.” You reply—brain tuned to Latin. It makes them both wonder what else you can do.

—

Two hours left to go before the three of you reach your destination. You’ve switched out with Steve, who begrudgingly sits in the back, legs pushed up nearly to his chest while you stretch up front, cracking your back every which way. Bucky has refused to move from the driver’s side.

The music halts for a couple of hours while conversations meander. All sorts of subjects are breached now that there is nothing else to do _but_ talk. The last two months of knowing them, although made you more comfortable, didn’t quite allow you to learn as much as this single car ride has. Most of what you could understand from them was made through your own observations, but now they are more or less open books.

Sometimes, the words hang heavy in the air— old, bulbous and dusty ornaments they polish for you. Steve talks about the war. Bucky does too. You have lots of questions on your end and they illuminate all of them with personal spotlights.

Sometimes, it returns to the playfulness you are used to.

Steve vomited on the cyclone. Bucky lost three dollars trying to win a bear for a girl. You tell him you blew through thirty-five dollars on a crane machine once (for yourself) and the two of you share a moment of solidarity together. Although, it’s hard for you to imagine him as some flirtatious young man and Steve can see it on your face.

“New gal every two weeks.” He informs.

“Were there even that many women in Brooklyn?” You gasp, scandalized.

“They came from all over to get a look at Buck.”

Bucky only rolls his eyes, but you see a smile tug on the other side of his face.

“What was _wrong_ with them?” You whisper on-brand with your usual self, but the memory of his laughter by your front door glows rosy in your mind. Yeah, you can see how girls would get themselves in a tizzy for him. Winter Soldier with his mask on hardly turned heads as much as Captain Adonis America, but if you take a second to look at him, it’s easy to see how _built_ he is. Like a Greek statue. Even his aura is enthralling—a bit secretive, a little dark. He could definitely use that to his advantage.

The smile grows into an almost feral grin— _there's that aura_ , you think. “You haven’t seen nothin’ yet.” He nearly growls.

You sit back and pretend to busy yourself with petting Buckeye because the pink crawling up your neck is about to choke you blue.

—

Bucky pulls off the familiar highway, drives a distance down the curved road next to the river and you lean back, breathing in that familiar fishy and slightly sickly sewage air.

“Aw yeah. Welcome to Cincy.” You laugh. Steve ducks his head to watch the scene, squinting at billboards and watching houses whiz by.

“What’s Skyline Chili?” He asks as the car zooms by an advertisement. A questionable pile of shredded cheese overtakes the (apparently) chili and hot dog on the otherwise blue sign.

“Depending on your taste, either the best or worst thing you’ll ever eat.” The smile on your face widens when he furrows his brow. “Oh, my sweet summer child... you’re in for a _treat_.”

Your neighborhood comes into view and you wistfully stare at the immaculate paved roads, manicured wide green lawns, blonde-haired moms pushing baby strollers, and dogs trailing behind them on loose leashes. Buckeye pads around as much as he can in the back, stepping over your lap repeatedly as he begins to recognize where he’s at.

“Pretty nice neighborhood.” Steve comments, making a slow turn. The GPS pulls him into a driveway leading up to your parent’s ranch-style home. They both whistle at the garden in bloom and the cobblestone path. You point him to pull around to the garage where your father’s Benz is parked. The old willow tree hangs over it, weeping petals and leaves on the windshield.

“Holy shit.” Bucky mutters at how the rosebushes and magnolia pots wrap even around the side and the back. The deck is littered with more flowers and potted plants. A stained glass table. Even the outdoor chairs have beautiful plush cushions. There seems to be a room underneath the slope of the yard—perhaps a basement transformed into a living space. Everything matches perfectly. “You _do_ have money.”

You sigh.

“It’s not _my_ money. It’s my parents’.” The scathing and bitter tone makes him frown, but you hop out anyway, slinging two bags over your shoulder and nudging Buckeye into the yard. Your dog happily pounces all over the greenery, chasing butterflies and barking.

“You sure they’re ok with this?” Steve asks carefully.

You nod, “There are lots of perks to being the prodigal son. Daughter, in my case.”

“Thought you had a dick.” Bucky sneers.

“Get with the times, old man. Gender is an _illusion_.”

—

The house is empty. You lead them through the front door and into the hall where it branches into three areas. There’s a railing and staircase that leads down, but for now they take in the sights on this floor. The first step points straight to the dining room where the table is already lined with china and perfectly arranged. Silk napkins. Crystal glasses. Delicately carved mahogany display cabinet.

On the right is the living space and kitchen where the color scheme turns to a pale aqua, cream, and gold accents. Two scooped leather seats face the flat screen, flanked by built-in shelves filled with books. There is also a small couch and a seafoam armchair and matching ottoman. The coffee table is a gorgeous marble, flecked with gold.

They turn and look down the other way, noticing a large mirror entombed by a heavy decorated frame in between two doors. The walkway continues right and disappears even further down.

You stare at them. They stare back.

“Please don’t.” You beg, dropping your bags with a heavy sigh; this is why you didn’t want them coming. You hate it when people comment on your parents’ house. And they haven’t even seen the pool or tennis court. Or the downstairs living area with the grand piano your fingers nearly bled all over from countless hours of practice. Or the family oil painting you sat for when you were a kid. _Fuck_.

“I fucking hate it.” Bucky says nonchalantly. “Gaudy shit. Too big. This place haunted?”

You could leap into his arms if they weren’t carrying his bag and your dog’s stuff. Instead, you settle for a genuine smile, all warmth and radiance because you feel it in your heart—the appreciation for his understanding wrapped in snark. “ _Now_ we’re talking. C’mon. Let’s go downstairs. You guys can stay in my childhood bedroom.”

They finally drop their bags on the bay window seat in your old room after you unlock it. It’s always been like this— and you never let your parents come in. You open the middle of the window and let the room air out a little and the afternoon light pours in. Your old pictures are still on the shelves. Trophies. Music books. Your suede riding helmet, too. They wander around, peering at the images.

“Where are your parents?” Steve asks.

You shrug and plop down on the king-size bed out of habit, lying back with your legs dangling off the edge. Buckeye hops on with you and pads around a bit before he settles into a bagel-like swirl of a shape. “Ibiza. Dubai. Paris. Virgin Islands. Take your pick. My dad has property in all of them.” You message him anyway. You’re not surprised they’re gone for the summer. You don’t _really_ come back for them; you mostly come back to get away from Manhattan.

“Wow.” Steve mutters.

“He even owns part of a mountain in Colorado. It’s vile. Historically, we’re from Ohio… ugh. I don’t want to talk about it.” You feel like a child again, and being in this space doesn’t help.

Steve examines the paintings in the room and flips through scattered books on the work desk. Bucky trails around your bookshelves, looking at the frames, picking some up here and there to examine what’s inside. “Who’s this?”

Peeking up you blow a _pppffbbfbfbt_ breath of air out between your lips. It’s you, _duh._ Except your hair is perfectly curled and piled atop your head— a bird’s nest cushion for a sparkly tiara. Your eyes are piled heavily with so much eyeshadow and lash extensions it looks like an ombré spider web, and you’re wearing a low-cut dress swirling with rhinestones. Across your torso is a sash. Yep. Homecoming Queen. You’re pressed up against your date, all smiles, sharp cheeks, shoulders so thin he can see your skeleton jutting out. Over ten years ago, you were a much different person.

“Laugh it up, Barnes.” You mutter. “Thas ya girl, sweet sixteen, massively underweight, and aspiring to be the shiniest trophy wife of them all.”

“Why would I laugh?” He asks, suddenly solemn. Bucky turns to look at you, sprawled out on the bed, sardonic smile plastered to your face. “You don’t look very happy.” He still has the picture in his hand. Steve has paused, too, closing a heavy leather-bound first edition. Being caught in the middle of two concerned stares makes you heavy with anxiety and dread. Instead of spending another second under their gaze, you shoot up and motion for Buckeye to follow.

“Don’t be fucking weird, man.” Then, you’re already up the stairs.

Steve and Bucky glance at each other and Bucky places the picture back on the shelf.

—

In the downstairs living space next to their room, you pour three glasses of thirty-year-old single malt whiskey from the cabinet and plop down on the piano bench. The boys sit on the couch and regard you curiously as you open the cover and stare at the ivory keys. Your foot stomps on each of the paddles underneath vengefully. Then you tip your head back, whiskey along with it, and slam the cover shut with a trembling crash. “Fuck you, Mozart.” You whisper, as if the piano can hear.

—

You peek downstairs after your bath and call, “Hey! My parents use a water softener so if you feel slimy… it’s normal.” The whiskey has made you flush with excitement and volatile energy.

Steve’s head pops out from the bathroom doorway, neck and chest red from the heat. “Oh, thank God.” He says, “Buck’s been scrubbing for _hours_.”

“Who the fuck would do this!” Bucky’s voice echoes from the same tiled space. You can practically see it shooting out from the room behind Steve’s shoulder to crash into the adjacent wall like a comic panel.

The towel on top of your head slips and you attempt to grab it quickly, using your other hand to hold onto the knot around your chest. “You guys _fucking_ in there?!”

Steve only grins and sends you a wink, mischievous expression catching you off guard. The towel tumbles down the stairs and your hair slaps itself over your face. The two of you watch the fluffy sheet spread over the bottom of the steps before staring at each other. “You gonna get that?” He asks.

“No.” You reply, abruptly mortified, “It’s yours now.”

Apparently, Steve Rogers has chosen this very moment to make it known that _partners_ is not only platonic in meaning. You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed, because you’ve been harassing them for months about who’s a bottom (you bet all four limbs it’s Bucky), but suddenly the moment is confronting you and all you can do is think about how you’re naked and third-wheeling … in your own damn home. And that maybe you shouldn’t have had all that whiskey.

Captain America rubs the tip of his nose absentmindedly, “You alright?” There is genuine concern in his eyes as he steps out of the doorway and reveals his –NAKED! NAKED!

“No!” You scream, turning your head and hiding behind your outstretched hand. “No! Don’t! You fucking stay there you—Fucking A, Steve!”

He’s not really naked; he’s wrapped hip-down in a towel, but you don’t even want to see the outline of him. As far as you know, he’s a smooth-crotched Ken Doll. Maybe Bucky has like, three dicks. There is so much panic inside of you right now.

The water stops from the shower and rustling is heard as Bucky dries off. You attempt to slowly back up away from the steps and move back into the confines of your own room until your dog springs past you like a loose cannonball and sails downstairs. He banks left into the bathroom and licks a stripe over Steve’s shin before finding his true target: Bucky.

There is tumbling, banging, wincing from you and Steve as Buckeye clobbers his human doppelganger once more. Then, there is yelling and cussing—Steve, moving inside to help, but then more crashing follows before Buckeye tears from the bathroom and up the stairs with two towels clenched tightly in his mouth.

“No…” You whisper, when he drops them at your feet. His tongue flops against his chin and he looks up expectantly, as if you might reward him for his endeavor. Steve’s head peeks out again, and the wry smile he sends your way says: _you’re fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh hu h uh uh u huhuhh whaaaaat is happening???   
> Seriously though, there will be a short angsty segment soon, and then we can get back to the tomfoolery. XX


	4. I'm in the mood for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beyond the sass and the crass lies a tender moment.

__It’s a miracle that you had worked up the courage to trot downstairs to return the only covering that separated two bare-ass naked men from your eyes. And not to mention yourself, who was only covered in a towel, too.

You make Steve stand so far around the corner of the doorframe that all he can do is stick out his hand. Bucky rustles the shower curtain impatiently and makes a comment on how “non-hyperverbal” you’re being and you’re too nervous to even respond back. When Buckyeye starts looking at you and the swinging white hem at your shins, you shoo him up the stairs before he gets any other bright ideas. 

“Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Bucky comments later as you fiddle around in the kitchen, “But I guess it makes sense-- you still have those stuffed animals on your bed.” 

You bristle and glare at him, “Just because _you_ didn’t have a childhood doesn’t mean I can’t.” 

It’s a little too mean, and you hear the venom that shoots right into him as soon as it leaves your mouth. “Sorry.” You comment. Damn it. He grew up in the fuckin’ Great Depression where everything was dusty and shit. 

“Not all of us can travel the world eating caviar at the ripe age of _four_.” Bucky snarls. Ugh. Why’d he have to do that? 

“Oh, fuck you.” You retort the same time Steve sharply calls Bucky’s name to reel him back in. It doesn’t work, as Steve knows, because when you and Bucky get into it—you _get into it_. 

“You wish, _princess._ Wait _,_ you’re such a goddamn prude, anyway-- _”_

All Steve can do is cross his fingers and bark, “Buck!” 

It’s too late. You’re across the room before Steve can say much else and you’ve launched yourself over one empty couch and straight into Bucky sitting on the other. The force knocks it slightly and it teeters before flopping back with a muffled thud. 

Buckeye begins to run around in circles, unsure of the kind of play this particular moment is. 

You have no idea what you’re doing, and you doubt you even want to—or can-- hurt him in any way, but you are so finished with his bullshit. You death-grip his hair as you jab both knees into his abdomen. Bucky moves to rip you off, but you clamp your teeth over his wrist and he yelps. 

“Fuck you!” You scream, “fuck you _so_ much! I—ow! I fucking apologized, you—Ugh!” 

Buckeye, ever the perfect audience member, begins to bark to the rhythm of your screeching and aggressively nudges Bucky’s foot with his snout. 

Soldat’s metal hand pushes your face back until its tilted up to the ceiling and further beyond, precariously suspended. The only thing keeping you from cracking your skull on the coffee table is your clinging to his hair. Steve’s concerned expression is upside down and his arms are outstretched, trying to determine the right configuration to pry the two of you apart. “Get that fucking! Aluminum foil finger the fuck away fr---” 

“Shut up!” Bucky’s palm smashes against your mouth as his legs wrap around your back until you’re a squished human pretzel inside of him. You’re too crushed even to make any sounds and behind you Steve is sputtering vowels and consonants but not stringing together any real words. Finally, he nearly shrieks, 

“Bucky! Jesus! You’re gonna actually kill her!” 

Yep. This is how you’re gonna go, you think. The Winter Fucking Soldier has officially had enough of your bullshit, too, and he is going to bear-hug you to death. Who would have thunk it? Your fingers disengage and fall uselessly over his arms. 

When time begins to slow and your soul starts to _yeet_ itself from your body, Bucky blessedly lets go. “You’re bluer than I was in cryo.” He sneers. 

Steve gasps, scandalized by the comment. For whatever reason, he’s covered Buckeye’s ears, too. You would send him an incredulous look, but you can’t feel your face. 

With a pathetic whistle of air, you flop backwards and hang upside down over the couch, thighs gripped tightly by Bucky, heaving deep breaths until your lungs feel like they might burst through your rib cage. No wonder you are not a superhero—fuck the _hubris,_ you are physically not built for this shit. 

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You mutter when Steve’s face begins to spin alongside your dog who slobbers all over your nose. Bucky yanks you up by the front of your shirt and the cough that blasts from your mouth goes right into his face. His smug expression twists into one of disgust and you take the moment to waggle your eyebrows suggestively. 

Your sour mood has fled and now that you’re absolutely sure you cannot kick his ass—you return to the one thing you _do_ know you’re capable of: 

“Hey, baby. Is that a glock in your pants or are you just _really_ happy to see me?” 

To drive your point home, you bounce on his lap with a wide grin, wiggling your butt in exaggerated motions. 

“Okay! That’s enough!” 

Steve scoops you up and plants you back on the other side of the coffee table. “That’s _too_ smart! Too smart!” He scolds as you pat your bottom and then curtsy. Bucky only huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to meet your gaze. Ha-ha. Winter Soldier, meet your match—Ass Woman. No, that just sounds like a porno. 

“Alright, fuckers.” You declare, stepping over to the built-in bookshelf around the flatscreen and retrieving a leather-bound copy of _The Wizard of Oz_. “Ready for chili?” 

They watch you open the front and stick your hand inside the false pages and retrieve a roll of bills. “What?” You ask nonchalantly. “Oh—shut up, Barnes. Like you guys _really_ need me to pay back the vet fees. Technically, my tax dollars pay you.” 

Steve shakes his head no. So, you casually toss him the roll of cash and then pull out another one. 

“Jesus! Will you put these back?” 

“Look,” You say, “For every month I don’t come home my mother puts another wad in this box.” You show them the pile of rolled bills, each encased in varying sizes of rubber bands. “She thinks it’ll ensnare me, but joke’s on her, the more I’m away the more there is to spend. She’s not very smart—a consequence of never having to think for herself.” 

“And you’re fine with spending it?” Bucky ponders. The relationship you have with your family grows more confusing the longer they spend in your parents’ house. The memorabilia littered in your childhood bedroom seems to suggest that you aren’t completely detached from your family or your childhood. The way you respond to _being_ home is paradoxical, too—disgusted at the excess one minute, reveling in it the next. 

“It’s just fucking money. They make so much of it. I couldn’t bankrupt them if I tried. My father has offshore accounts in the fucking Caymans. I literally could _not._ ” 

They both pause before Steve speaks up, “Are you an only child?” 

You frown. “No.” Then you aggressively push him by the shoulder and toward the exit, motioning for Bucky to follow. “It’s fucking Skyline time.” 

Suddenly, you pause at the door and turn around to put both your hands on your hips. Looking both of them up and down, you shake your head impatiently. Steve is wearing his civilian Captain America outfit again. And Bucky, honestly, Bucky looks like someone _cosplaying_ Bucky. 

“Who _dresse_ _d_ you?” You demand, exasperated, “You guys like, do spy stuff? It’s baffling to me that you don’t get caught immediately. Steve—khakis?” 

Upon being admonished, he scoffs and looks around, “What’s wrong with my khakis?” 

“Will you please tell him something?” You ask Bucky, who only rolls his eyes as if to say, _you’re fuckin’ telling me_. When it’s obvious that Steve’s poor choices are solely the result of him being an old fuck with no fashion sense, you mumble. “At least switch shirts. I’m going to take Buckeye out… please… fix this.” 

\- 

When you come back, the sight of Steve wearing black and Bucky wearing light blue is so discomforting you cover Buckeye’s eyes. “It’s okay, boy.” You whisper loudly. Bucky flips you off but fixes the hem of the shirt he’s sporting. Steve—for whatever inexplicable reason, has decided to tuck… You quickly yank his shirt from his waistband and shake your head. “Christ, why are you like this?” 

\-- 

Untucked and uncomfortable in black, Steve looks at the menu as if the letters on it were runes from an ancient past. He doesn’t understand at all what Skyline Chili is or _why_ it is. They’re coneys—this he _does_ understand. But the rest of it—nope. Why would anyone ever _need_ that much cheese? Bucky mirrors his sentiment by shutting the menu and crossing his arms. 

The small bowl of oyster crackers in the middle of the table is being torn apart as you shovel handful after handful into your mouth. There is an inordinate amount of hot sauce sprayed on the top of the crisps, and you wipe your hands haphazardly on a napkin when you’re finished. 

“Okay. You feelin’ spag or nah?” You ask, not even looking up. “Spagbol.” You continue, “Spag-y. SPAGHETS!” Then, in a terrible and very offensive Italian rendition, you pinch your fingers together and enunciate, “Its-a-spha-ghetta!” 

Bucky slumps down into the booth until you stop. Steve puts his hand over his eyes. 

“Why would you put chili on spaghetti noodles?” Bucky hisses. 

The waitress arrives right after his question and you reach over to take his hands into your own— still reeking of peppers and vinegar from the hot sauce. “Shh,” You say almost tenderly, “Adults are talking now.” 

“I hope you rub your eyes with that hand later.” Bucky snarls. 

“I’ll cup your balls with it, instead.” You respond. 

The waitress whimpers at the conversation she’s just stumbled into. 

\-- 

Six coneys arrive and as well as two plates of spaghetti. You explain to the boys that the Skyline specialty is steamed buns, mustard, special secret spice chili, raw onions, and _hella_ shredded cheese. The noodles come with the same, sans mustard, and if you’re feeling extra frisky— beans. One plate is extra frisky today. Then you unscrew the cap to the hot sauce and shake the shit out of it onto everything. 

They are bewildered at the sheer excess of American consumption as you shove almost half a coney into your face. Cheese flops down onto your plate. 

“I think I’m gonna vomit.” Steve whimpers. 

“Big baby, wimpy, Stevie can’t eat the cheesy?” Between mouthfuls, you’re still a dick. “Just try it! What are you, six?” 

He glares at you and then sends a puppy-dog look to Bucky who already is lifting a coney to his face. You take another bite and watch them do the same. 

Immediately, Steve coughs. Bucky starts laughing so hard he drops the pile of shredded cheese all over the table. You tuck into the overflowing plate of spaghetti, hot noodles melting the cheddar on top into an amalgam of gooey yellow. “I can’t do it.” Steve groans, “This isn’t right. This isn’t what God wanted.” 

“God is dead, bitch.” You reply, “There is only Skyline Chili.” 

\-- 

“So what’s your deal?” Bucky asks from the couch. 

The three of you have returned back to the house, winding down for the night. It’s eight now, and you’ve driven them around the city just to show them the sights. The gentrified downtown with its bustling crowd of young, white party-people interspersed with streets of dilapidated buildings and homelessness. There’s a bitterness to your voice when you talk about the changing scenery—but a kind of sadness, too. You admit you don’t really know the solution. The business brings in money to the city, but all the people left behind are _really_ getting left behind. 

You show them the more relaxed areas, like Over the Rhine and point out its massive brewery. You promise to take them there soon. There’s also the famous Cincinatti Zoo, and King’s Island, where you swear is better than where Steve wanted to go- Coney Island #2. There’s no point in taking him there, you declare when he starts to sputter, because he only wants to go to shit all over it, and because King’s Island is _way cooler_. 

“What do you mean?” You ask back, flipping through the stations with your feet propped up on the coffee table. Steve and Bucky are sitting side-by-side under a blanket. There is a bowl of chips and hummus shared in their laps since Steve refused to eat during dinner and is now very cranky. 

“All of this. Excess. Money. And then... you.” he waves to the house, then to you, sprawled out carelessly on a leather couch in mismatched pajamas. Buckeye’s head is faithfully in your lap, big eyes peering up at you, as if he’s waiting for an explanation too. 

“You hating on my penguin top and pumpkin bottoms or what?” 

“C’mon...” Steve beckons, knowing that your deflection is just another cop-out. 

So, you groan, because they’re teaming up on you and after almost three months it’s bound to happen. They’ve told you so much about themselves already. You’ve learned all about the personal lives of the Commandos, the war stories, serums and experimentations, the cryo, the trial after the Triskelion... the blood, and sweat, and all of Steve Rogers’ tears. 

“Well... it’s not as exciting as you think it is.” You mutter, tugging on Buckeye’s ear, finding the texture comforting under their persistent gaze. “Just a dumb girl born into an obscene family.” 

But you tell them, truthfully and genuinely. Your family has old money- oil, or steel, probably both. As a result, you grew up in the lap of luxury, private schools, language programs, singing classes, dance lessons, horseback riding, trips to Europe and Asia, enormous birthday parties and a line of suitors as soon as you started growing breasts. The worst part, you admit, is that you _loved it._

The picture they picked up in your room was from junior prom, and the date was a boyfriend- family friend- you’d been with for about six months, and he already planned on proposing. That was just how it was. Rich people marrying other rich people continuing the line of one-percenters. 

Really, you say, your family was maybe the 10 percenter-range. As rich as maybe low A-list movie stars, not quite Jeff Bezos. But you know _him_ , too. 

“What changed?” Steve wonders out loud for both him and Bucky. 

“Living in New York.” You half-smile at the memory of Union. “After Ohio State, I went to Union for my graduate studies and it blew my shit wide open. But that’s what happens when you start opening yourself up to other realities.” 

You tell them about the immense struggle the first year at Union, feeling ostracized and realizing that your life is nothing like most peoples’ lives, and then beginning to frame your understanding of the world in a different way. You tell them you got mugged once and you felt like you probably deserved it. 

“Then the election happened.” You sigh, and they both groan at the reminder. “As you know... it’s just been downhill and _fucked._ We had a big falling out here over Thanksgiving holiday.” 

You didn’t come home in almost two years. You took out loans, you worked two jobs, took a full course load and wrote a thesis, and then went on to your Doctoral program. Your parents reached out to you and you eventually came half-way back into the fold. 

“And spending their money?” 

Most of the money you get you give to the local shelters. “That’s just direct action, baby.” You laugh. “We go at it, all the time. But you know, I figure... If I have to live in this shit world, might as well be a bastard about it.” 

That earns a hearty chuckle from both your guests. “Jesus, that explains a _lot_.” Bucky grins as you nuzzle Buckeye and plant a kiss on his wrinkly face. 

It feels so much better now that you’ve aired all the dirty, 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. 

Steve hops up from the couch and runs downstairs, “Be right back!” He yells. You and Bucky narrow your eyes at the trail he’s padded into the carpet. In the distance, you can hear his rummaging and then thumping footsteps back up into the living room. He’s perfectly in one piece, because he’s Captain Damn America and nearly flying up a flight of stairs ain’t shit. 

“I figured this would happen.” He grins, holding up a metal flask. “It’s time to break out the Asgardian mead.” 

\-- 

The three of you are drunk on whiskey and space-juice, tumbling around the downstairs living room. You are banging on the piano keys, tapping out a stuttering and off-kilter rendition of The Magic School Bus theme song while they wrestle. Why is it that no matter how old boys get, they still love to wrestle? Around their legs is Buckeye, running around in circles and panting, like a racecar at the Indy—only making left turns, having the time of his life. 

“Get a fuckin’ ROOM!” You scream, throwing another shot down. 

“You mean _your_ room?” Steve laughs back, head under Bucky’s arm, tapping uselessly on his ribs. 

“Captain America, fuckin’ in my room. Carve that on my grave, baby.” You mutter, as the piano lid slams down and you take a bow, knocking the bench over with a crash. “Oops.” 

“Thas direct action, _baby_.” Bucky parrots your tone, “You’re so fucking lame.” 

Buckyeye leaps into the air and licks him on the face. “Fuck!” 

“Yeah, defend my honor, Buck!” You whoop. “Not _you!_ ” You point to Bucky, who flicks you off with a cackling laugh. The sound of it flutters into your ears like a ghost- leaving cold trails down your back. Suddenly, you get an idea. 

“Hey-- you guys on Twitter?” 

\-- 

They sit crosslegged on the floor flanking you as you scroll determinedly through what seems to be endless tweets. There are other tabs open, too, of compilations of these. _Thirst_ tweets, you explain. The internet loves and wants to bone the hell out of Captain America. Some of them want the Soldier there too—just watching, apparently. 

Steve is seventeen shades of red and a little bit of purple. Bucky keeps cursing under his breath and at one point, you think, is reciting _Hail Mary._ It’s a million times worse than your playlist. 

_Who’s Got the Biggest Dick in Baseball_ is nothing compared to _captain america could spit into my mouth and id say thank you_

“I would _never!”_ Steve gasps. “Or _that!”_

The tweet in question says: _ruin my life big_ _dorito_ _daddy_

“What does that mean?” Bucky groans, a little ruffled by all the lewd attention Steve is getting. 

“His back is shaped like a Dorito, duh. Don’t get jealous, big boy. You’re next.” 

For whatever reason, Bucky’s tweets _are_ way worse. Maybe it’s his persona—that redeemed baddie type of thing. People eat that shit up like chips and dip—and apparently want to eat him too. 

_As long as I have a face, Winter_ _Soldier_ _has a seat_   
_rearrange my guts,_ _Sargeant_ _Sexy_   
_When will James Buchanan Barnes put his fist in me? WHEN?_   
_I didn’t know I was into getting choked until I saw that metal arm._

You snort whiskey into your lungs in the middle of reading one out loud and spend the next five minutes with your insides on _fire._ Steve has his head in Bucky’s lap and there are tears coming out of his eyes both from Bucky’s clenched jaw and you, crumpled into a heap spewing amber. 

\-- 

A jazz tune belts out from the surround sound system. Steve has picked a Music Choice station from the seemingly endless list of cable possibilities and of course, being a nostalgic thing, chose Swingers — wait, Singers and Swing. Your brain is loopy with joy. 

“Didn’t you say you took dance lessons?” Steve asks nonchalantly. 

“Uh-huh,” you sigh on the floor, legs crossed over Buckeye as you pull him down on your tummy. Rolling side to side with you, your dog begins to groan and flop, aggravated at your antics. 

“You know, Buck used to dance.” 

“Uh-huh, you sure did, didn’t you, big baby?” You kiss Buckeye on the nose. 

“Bucky. Bucky, not Buckeye.” 

He returns from the restroom with his hair pulled away from his face, changed into a long sleeved soft shirt and sweats. “What?” 

“You used to dance!” Steve urges with a flick of his wrist, “Get on out there!” He waves his finger to the carpeted living space where you are spread-eagled, trying your best to keep your dog next to you. Damn it, you want _cuddles_! 

“You want me to lead her? Stevie, I couldn’t lead the girl to water if she were a horse.” 

“I am _not_ a whore!” You cry indignantly, shooting up from the carpet and knocking Buckeye over with a yelp. 

“A _horse_! Jesus H. Christ, ya deaf!” 

You probably are, you think, as the music slurs itself into one long whine. Bucky grabs you by the hand anyway, determined to prove some point to Steve. He turns you around until you face him and takes a second to start on the right beat. 

It’s like a switch has flipped and he becomes all step and sway as he moves to the music, leading you, too. Some vestigial memory digs its way out of your muscles from all those damn dance lessons and your feet point and tap along with him, hips rocking when he spins you around and pulls you back. A grin slowly breaks across his face, big and lopsided, all teeth. 

You feel like a little puppet in complete submission to him as he expertly uses the perfect amount of momentum to change your course. 

Laughter bursts forth from your mouth as you whirl dizzily around Bucky, hands clamped tightly in both of his. The room is a blur of colors and the blue of Steve’s eyes, watching. 

At one point, you stand hip-to-hip side-by-side and kick your feet together before he takes you by the waist and dips you low. You’re breathless as he laughs, mirroring your puffs of warm air from above, wild with motion— his hair slipping from behind his ear to hang over your forehead. 

“Holy shit you got _moves.”_ You proclaim as the song finishes and he tugs you up with a satisfied chuckle. A slower melody comes on and you move to return to the couch where Steve is sitting with Buckeye, but Bucky tugs you again, closer. 

He places one hand behind your back, resting on the ridged thread-bare waistband of your pajama shorts, and the other one he holds up to his chest. You blink away the fuzzy spots from your eyes and peer at him, looking so far away even though he’s just inches apart. His expression has changed, dropping into something distant and removed and staring straight through you. 

You see it now. He’s not Bucky anymore. 

It hits you like a bag of bricks, that this is James Barnes, in all his glory as a beautiful Brooklyn boy. Out dancing with a girl. Laughing, just like this: bristled, square-jawed and cleft-chinned. Wide, pouty lips. Bright steel eyes. Before he was a soldier, he was just a boy. 

Before he was _The_ Soldier, he was just a boy. 

His chest rises and falls slowly as he takes a deep breath. The crooning in the background is tender, melodic, with the singer’s sweet voice pining for her loved one accompanied by delicate plucks of a piano. 

Once, too, he pined. 

The tears in your eyes spill over when you press your mouth to his. Bucky lets go of your hands and you catch his face with them, instead, holding onto his head, fingers grazing his ears and neck and brushing away his hair. You kiss him as if he might be shipped out to war tomorrow. It hurts even more to know that he probably had a night just like this, in the arms of a girl he loved, right before his entire life changed. 

And then, you tear away and look at the couch where Steve sits, chewing on his lip, red-eyed too. You sob uncontrollably when you rush around the table and into his arms. He wraps them around you, pushes his face down into your shoulder. 

“I love you guys.” You whisper, curled up in Steve’s lap, because the story of Steve Rogers and Peggy Carter was never explicit in the history books, but you know it too. “Oh God. I’m so sorry it’s like this. I’m so sorry.” 

Steve forgets sometimes, that they were ripped out of time. He forgets the torment and tearing of Bucky’s entire being. They busy themselves in tomorrow and moving forward so much that they bury how the things that made them also broke them. 

You are clinging onto his shirt, crying for him now, for both of them. Two handsome soldiers, living, dying, resurrected again. Having only each other to know and hold. 

Sergeant Barnes of the 107th closes his eyes and presses his lips together. When he opens them, he is Bucky Barnes of the terrible, modern age once more. He crosses the room quietly, as he always does, as he was made to do. He sits down next to Steve as you look up at him with love and sympathy and so much sadness he can’t stand it. He links his hand in yours and smiles in a way that cracks your heart right open. 

“Don’t get weird, kid.” Bucky whispers with moist lashes. Your laugh is strangled when it escapes your throat, all wet and whine as you squeeze his fingers tighter. 

“I _love_ you. You don’t understand.” 

Steve breathes a sigh into your shoulder and rubs his damp cheeks on the penguin print of your sleeping shirt. From next to him, Buckeye looks up quizzically and gives his arm a long, slow lick. 

“Yeah, yeah,” He mutters, swatting at your dog’s snout lovingly, lips pressed into your collarbone. Then, he kisses you too, tipsy and torn open. In the background, Julie London sweetly croons: 

_If there’s a cloud above and it must rain, we’ll let it._

_But for tonight, forget it._

_I’m in the mood for love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF. Might have written myself into a pickle. I think I’m just an angsty person at heart bc my fingers were cranking out the end and I was SO EMOTIONAL.
> 
> Also it's probably obvious what my politics are but this is the most we'll get into them. :) Lets keep it civil & chill, babes.


	5. The damn truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the damn truth?? AKA time to get those feelings out and stop being weird y'all.

In the morning, you brew coffee and pour it into one mug set out next to two others. You’re surprisingly the first up, senses dulled and head lightly rickety with a loosened brain from last night’s whiskey. Venturing to the garden, you sit cross-legged on a chair and watch Buckeye roam across the grass, rubbing his back over the silky blades still damp with morning dew. 

It’s all green and lush under the summer sun as your eyes trail over to the steps leading down, disappearing into the glass sliding door of the lower living room. The tablet tucked under your arm gets propped up on the glass table and you begin to work. Even in summer, it never ends. 

I’m a way, you’re glad for it because it keeps you busy and tethered to something resembling a schedule. Would you rather lie in bed with Buckeye eating pretzels watching Netflix? Yeah. But your therapist keeps telling you its not healthy .. so… 

Your fingers are clicking away, focused on one window, typing notes into another when the rattling doorknob draws your attention to Steve exiting the house with a mug in his hand, blowing gently on the surface. 

“Hey.” He calls, looking up, then greets Buckeye with a scratch on his wet rump. 

You give him a smile because you don’t quite know what to say, choosing instead to watch your dog pad off again, as if him sniffing the same spot in the yard is more interesting. 

Steve sits down in the bench next to your chair, freshly showered in jeans and a grey t-shirt-- too small, as always. You’re fresh, too, changed into a pale blue jersey romper. “Did you sleep okay?” 

“Mhm,” You reply, but can’t help the way your eyes return to his chest where you rested your head just five hours before. 

Last night ended on a solemn note. The two of them went back to their room and you and Buckeye upstairs, all heavy-hearted and tired of reality. You remember dancing, and crying, and kissing. You remember feeling so shredded, thinking about them. You remember Steve’s warm lap and Bucky’s beard rubbing against your palm. 

“C’mere,” Steve calls softly, reaching his hand over and tugging on the waistband of your outfit. You comply, carefully balancing the cup in your hand and sit down in his lap again. Your tummy is flipping, because Steve Rogers nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck and wraps his arm around your waist. The denim of his jeans rubs against your thighs as he shifts and sets your coffee cup down. 

Change flutters all around you now, after taking flight last night. It hovers and clings, seeping into your skin like the humidity of morning. You’re not sure where or how to begin talking about this strange relationship, because you’ve never entertained the possibility of its arrival. 

Yes, Captain America is a thicc ass bitch and you’re _hot_ for him, but Steve Rogers is your friend and you care for him more than you want to see if he’s actually a smooth-crotched Ken Doll. You can’t even start to think about Bucky right now, or else you might cry again. 

And certainly, to probe the intricacies of their relationship in order to carve a space for yourself is something so unbearably selfish you would never dream of doing it. 

“What—um, what is—” You pause because the rest of this sentence could push your friendship in any way and you’re fearful of _every_ way. 

“Don’t think about it too much.” Steve comments as you tense inside of his grasp, “We try not to.” Then, he laughs, “I suppose that doesn’t help you feel better, huh.” 

Your arms wrap around yourself and they come to rest on his forearms. “I like what we have. I don’t want to get between what the two of _you_ have. It’s… a massive, wonderful thing-- deep, and—” 

Steve shushes you, “Buck and I really do like you. You’re not intruding on anything.” And then, he turns you so that he’s facing your side and not your back. One hand slides up your face and then his mouth is on yours … and is it too stupid to say that when Captain America kisses you, fireworks pop off in your brain and some patriotic tunestarts blasting itself in the background? 

He tastes like coffee and _freedom_. Breath warm and sweet like a breeze on the 4th of July— saltwater taffy and the outdoors. There’s an eagle screeching proudly in the distant void of your mind. 

Suddenly, Steve pulls away and you’re sure your face is stuck in some tragically half-frozen mask of sheer dumbstruck. 

“Are you humming _America the Beautiful_ right now?” He asks, incredulous. 

“Huh.” You respond, dazed, “I thought that was just in my head.” 

He tilts back laughing and takes you along with him, your shoulder crashing into his chest and your head knocking into his as you flail, trying to catch yourself. Steve holds on tightly, fingers digging into your arm and thigh—and when the hell did he get fresh and put his hand there? Sly fuck. 

“Wanted to do this for a while now.” He grins as he pulls your face down onto his once more. It is a shock to you that Captain America, the Star-Spangled sunofabitch, can kiss like it’s his damn job. His _tongue_ is in your _mouth._ Your heart feels like a gerbil spinning wildly on a wheel and might burst out of your chest any moment until— 

The rattling of the doorknob for a second time this morning catches you off guard. You yank back, fearfully aware that Steve’s spit is glistening on your lips. And goddamn, it is _hot_. 

Bucky joins with a mug of coffee in hand and slides the door shut. He steps past the doormat and plops down on your old seat, crosses his left ankle on his other knee and stares off into the yard as if he’s there alone. As if you’re not pitched over and crushed against his _partner’s_ chest while one of his hands is so high up your thigh it’s practically on your ass. 

“Morning,” he grunts, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Mornin, Buck.” Steve replies breezily, and you can feel his mouth twist into a smile against your collarbone. “How’s your coffee?” 

Bucky takes another sip impassively, “Pretty good. A little burnt. How’s your lap?” 

You shoot up and nearly knock the whole table over as you brush your clothes off with a nervous laugh, “Well! I’m going to… Jesus. Christ. Uh. Let’s uh. Meet me at the car in fifteen minutes and we can go get breakfast. Or church. Fuck me with a broom.” Your brain is a bag of ferrets thrown into a dumpster fire. 

The door slams shut as you nearly break the entire frame running inside and Steve sends Bucky a shit-eating grin before patting the thigh you were just on top of. 

“You gonna come take her place over here, or what?” 

— 

Breakfast is _weird_. It’s weird like _The Twilight Zone_ is weird. 

You’ve opted to leave your hair down for today, letting as much of it cover your face as possible because if either one of them looks at you, you think you might just combust. You’re ready to go back to being a bastard at any time now, but your nerves are wringing themselves into knots. Another pancake gets cut into a triangle by your fork. 

And then Steve steals it right off your plate. 

“You candy-ass mother-!” You yelp defensively. 

“There she is!” He replies, stuffing it in his mouth and pointing at you with the prongs. Bucky only raises his eyebrow behind a glass of water. “I thought we were past this.” Steve urges. 

No, making out on the patio is not equivalent to a conversation about joining a relationship as the fucking _third partner_ , you think. Your eyes say as much as you glare at your plate and then up to Bucky, pleading with him to help you. 

“Don’t look at me,” Bucky shrugs, “I wasn’t the one playing tongue hockey with ya.” The fork in your hand clatters as you shove your face in your palms with a groan. Absolute filthy bastard. He’s chomping on hashbrowns open-mouthed as he looks at you expressionlessly. Could anyone be more annoying? Probably not. 

“Well, she _did_ tell _you_ she loved you _twice.”_ Steve points out, “So maybe I’m not the one who should be playing tongue hockey with her.” Never mind, apparently _Steve_ can be more annoying. Figures. 

The neckline of your romper is now pulled completely over your face until only your hairline is visible. Inside of your albeit thin, but somewhat safe space, you groan as your entire body rises to sweltering degrees. 

“You guys are bullies.” You complain. 

“What’s that, hon?” Steve asks— and you can just _hear_ him smiling. “Didja say somethin’?” 

“I think she called us bullies, Stevie.” 

“Bullies?! Sweetheart, _yo_ _u_ made us listen to _Sad n Sexy Santa_ for two hours on the drive here and would not stop screaming until we let you sing along.” 

You’d never imagine Steve Rogers as someone who would so easily distribute pet names like this, but apparently once you cross the bridge of sucking on each other’s face, they don’t stop coming. 

Your stomach is fluttering unbearably, but you snark back anyway, “ _Sad n Sexy Santa_ is a true effort of musical talent,” you proclaim, still glaring at the darkness under your romper. “Christmas songs sung in a minor key changes both the tune and the connotation of their lyrical content. Have you _ever_ thought that “All I Want For Christmas Is You” could be so unsettling? Didn’t think so!” 

A sharp tug is all it takes for your head to return to the world and Bucky’s arm fixes the wide collar so that your bralette isn’t exposed for the entire café to see. “Stop being a baby.” He scolds. 

“ _You_ !! _Baby_!” Nice. 

They both sit back against the opposite booth, arms crossed, smirking, as you pretend to enjoy your meal under their scrutiny. Oh, how the tables have turned, you lament. This is just divine punishment, after two months of being the most infuriating person to them, now they’re giving you a double dose of your own medicine. 

“I love eating breakfast by myself.” You announce out loud, reaching over to take some of Steve’s bacon, “Love getting three plates just for me.” 

Bucky’s laugh makes your ears go bright pink the same time your teeth crush the sliver of meat in your hand. 

\-- 

The Cincinnati Zoo returns you to sweeter childhood memories of elementary field trips where the kids went ballistic and the adults spent most of their time counting heads. Your parents never partook in chaperoning, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy it. 

Today, the weather is overcast, and upon the first drop of rain, Steve goes inside a merchandise store to buy two umbrellas. He returns just a bit too late and there is already a huge downpour, soaking half of Bucky’s arm who’s standing over you, acting as a shield when the awning of the building across the store isn’t enough. 

“Get over here!” You’re yelling, tugging on Bucky’s sleeve and stomping your foot, “What’s the point of you getting wet just so I don’t get wet? You’re so _stupid_!” 

Steve watches him relent with a smile as he opens his umbrella and tosses the second one to Bucky. Then, the three of you trek through puddles and make your way to the covered exhibits. 

Fiona the hippo is asleep in a little alcove of her aquarium, head tucked away. You explain to them the majesty of Fiona’s sonogram, birth, and her subsequent celebrity, but they don’t understand her like you do. They can’t even see the damn creature, Bucky scoffs, but you glare at him and he rolls his eyes away. 

You coo and tut, waggling your finger when her tail flops side-to-side and her back legs kick. When she has a bowel movement in her sleep and it disperses into the very water she’s resting in, you back up and gag, pushing Steve and Bucky away. 

“Alright, let’s go look at some other chonkers.” You proclaim as you lead them to the manatees. 

Three enormous, alabaster, and smooth-skinned sea cows float serenely in the murky blue. Two of them have green heads of lettuce clenched between their flippers and are chomping away, bits of leaves floating around their heads like vegetable halos. 

You press your hand against the glass and sigh. Steve and Bucky step closer, looking down curiously when you wipe at the corner of your eye. “Look at these giant fuckers.” You whisper, “I haven’t known peace like that since I was a fetus.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “God, you’re dramatic.” 

It’s quiet in the chamber with only the faint splashing of the rain falling on the water outside and plunking drips from your umbrella onto the concrete floor. Between a family’s departure and before the next one’s arrival, Bucky pushes you up against the glass and kisses you in front of an audience of marine mammals and Steve Rogers’ smirk. 

“How’s that for peace?” He mutters, mouth still pressed against yours. Your heart is thumping in your ears like a battle-drum. Bucky snags your bottom lip with his teeth and licks the sting away. 

“I think you—” you gulp, feeling your bottom lip snap back into place and giving it a slow suck just to see if it’s still there, “maybe need to consult a dictionary. But—you know, good try...” 

\-- 

They are relentless. 

In the café while eating greasy cheese and ham sandwiches and cold vegetables, they take turns knocking their knees into yours, grazing your thighs and legs. 

Between the big cats and the painted dogs, Steve squeezes your waist and rests his hand there until you shuffle away. 

Under the shelter of a tree by the elephants, Bucky blows on your ear and laughs when you shriek in surprise. Good God Almighty. There are goosebumps all over your skin even though you are _burning_. 

\-- 

Bucky drives home after deftly fishing the keys out of your bag. He could have thrown a grenade in there and you wouldn’t have noticed, being too distracted by the big and daunting reality of being… whatever it is you are now. 

Currently, Steve rides shotgun, glancing back to you once or twice every few minutes as you gaze out the window. The rain only let up a couple of minutes ago as all three of you exhausted every open exhibit at the zoo. Your feet are blistered from the repeated chafing of your toes against the wet front of your sandals, and the bottom of them hurt like the devil. 

A tiny buzz alerts you to the phone tucked away in your pocket. 

Natasha: _So, you guys fucking yet?_

Your heart leaps into your mouth. 

You: _What the fuck!!!! Did you plan this? You have cursed me, Natasha. I am broiling in the deepest layer of hell and they are feasting on my bones you asshole!_

Natasha: _That’s too kinky_ _even for me. Enjoy being feasted upon. Later._

Steve twists his head around like a goddamn owl and looks at you, “Everything okay?” 

You refuse to meet his gaze, “Uh-huh.” 

Bucky finds your eyes closed tightly the rear view. “Are you actually _shy_?” He ponders, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. When you say nothing, he continues, “I would have never guessed if I hadn’t seen it first-hand. Today.” 

“Be quiet.” You groan. 

“Don’t be like that, _princess_ ,” he chides, pulling into the driveway. “You’re a pretty good liar.” 

“You’re a pretty good liar! Heh!” You sneer back, imitating the way his voice might sound if he inhaled a lungful of helium. When the car stops and Bucky shuts off the engine, he turns around through the middle console and sends you a fanged grin, reminiscent of the way he snarled at you the first time he came to your apartment. 

Then he’s out the door, closing it with a quiet bang. Steve whistles lowly and looks over his shoulder, “You’re in for it now.” 

\-- 

Bucky throws you into the pool. 

He at least has the decency to take your phone out of your pocket before he chucks you in like a dead fish. Since it’s drizzled all day, the water is cold as all fuck and when it hits your back the shock stifles the scream wrenched from your throat. 

You resurface with a shriek, teeth chattering as you break the water and try to swim to the edge. You can barely get your hair out of your face before an enormous splash creates a wave that slams itself on the top of your head. Another cannonball goes into the blue and by the time your eyes are dry enough to see what the fuck is going on, you’re sandwiched between them and the cold slips right out of your skin. 

Steve’s hands have faithfully returned to your legs where the opening of your romper floats around in the chilling water. The tips of your toes are pointed, and your mouth is barely above the splashes of chlorine licking at your chin. Bucky and Steve are standing flat on their feet, barely wet at their collarbones. 

“Better hold on, ‘less you’re interested in drownin’.” Bucky teases. A mouthful gets spit out onto his neck and for a second you think maybe that point is worth it until Steve picks you up by the waist and dumps you two inches left and the water goes right over your head. 

You scramble and splash, regretting not taking those swimming classes seriously because all you can do is (sort of) float on your back and doggy paddle for about three minutes. Bucky chuckles when you finally relent and wrap your arms around his neck, burying your burning face into his sopping hair. 

_“_ Is this your idea of getting me wet.” You mumble as your cheeks scorch against him. Steve is behind you, kissing your nape until you lean back onto his shoulder too, both inflamed and anxious by their rapt attention. 

“Is it working?” Steve asks, and your silence is enough of an answer all on its own. You feel as if you might be brave enough to look up into Bucky’s eyes, maybe kiss him again, but a third and final cannonball crashes into the tranquil waves and then Buckeye breaks the water with a series of grunts and pants. 

His fat head bobs up and down as he paddles about, tongue hanging limply from his jaw. As he makes his way past the three of you staring blankly at him, Buckeye gives Steve’s face a long, slow lick. 

You swear you can hear Captain America faintly call your dog a “goddamn cockblock”. 

\-- 

Steve is in the shower when you snuggle up with Buckeye on the couch. A thick wool blanket covers your bare legs as you lean over, placing your head on your dog’s coiled body. He’s still a little damp from pool water, and the velvet grey of his coat is speckled with dark splotches. From downstairs, Bucky arrives, wet hair behind his ears and quietly lifts your dog up and places him on the sofa couch across from the coffee table. He smells like peppermint body wash. 

The sudden thought of him wearing red and white and kissing you under a mistletoe wriggles into your brain and you could scream. Instead, you steel yourself, scold the fantasy until it leaves. 

Your head lays on Buckeye’s former seat, dampening the leather, staring up into the ceiling. 

Bucky wordlessly smooths the blanket over your legs, sits down on the floor, and props his head up on his arms until he’s looking into your eyes. “Hey,” he says, biting on the tiniest bit of his bottom lip in a way uncharacteristic of him—nervous, careful. “Y’know, if this is too much—say somethin’—I’d rather be your friend than nothing at all.” 

A smirk tugs the corner of your lip and he huffs at the sight of it, waiting for a comment but still, he feels uneasy. You’re not looking at him, not yet, at least. It’s still up in the air if you’ll laugh or cry; your emotions have become overwrought when thinking of them. The quips here and there have been tiny little bandages over the aching wound. 

“C’mon,” Bucky whispers, “Thought you were gonna be bastard about it.” 

“Sorry…” You mutter, turning to face him. A single tear drops out and rolls over your nose bridge, plunking down onto the leather. “I think I am... feeling both overwhelmed and…” You close your eyes, trying to find your words. “I think I’m also feeling inadequate.” 

Bucky’s brow furrows, creating fine creases on his forehead. 

“I guess as a normal person, now faced with something … very serious-- two entire lives that have started _way_ before me and will last long after me, I’m just wondering how exactly I will fit? It’s certainly selfish... ” 

“It’s not.” 

A jerk of your mouth catches his gaze, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” You laugh, knowing fully well that the statement sounds silly because he’s right in front of you now, as he’s been for the past few days. And your comment makes it seem like he’s leagues away. “I want you to be happy. I think you‘ve spent so long not _being_ , I just want you to be happy.” 

Against your better judgement, you turn until your entire body is facing him and brush your fingers along his chin, then trail up until you are holding onto the side of his neck, thumb under his ear. Bucky smiles that lopsided boyish smile at you, set in the angular, firm face of a man, and closes his eyes. 

“Thanks.” 

He opens them, letting the gray-blue dance over your features. You feel brave again, because Bucky Barnes is inches away, looking at you like you could be part of his world. Leaning forward, you press your lips to his softly. He is already a part of _your_ world, more ingrained than you ever thought could be in the short time you’ve known him. 

You kiss him again. For good measure. And then again, for luck, maybe. “You know I meant it, last night.” You sigh against his mouth, “I do love you two.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky dismisses it playfully as he lifts himself up just a little more to hover over your face, turning so that his mouth slants on yours just right. “No time to talk now, darlin’.” 

He scrubs his beard against your neck, and you start giggling uncontrollably at the way it tickles. His nose brushes against your ear and his tongue traces your jaw before he peppers kisses up to your mouth. His fingers tap a staccato of morse code up and down your sides as you squeal. 

Who knew The Winter Soldier could be so... cute? 

“I’m ready for a nap!” Steve calls from the hallway, stopping short of interrupting the moment. “Think all of us can fit on the bed?” 

“Steve, man, it’s like evening time.” Your voice is muffled against Bucky’s face once more as he takes the opportunity to kiss you again. 

“I’m trying to find an excuse to lie down,” Steve grumbles. You hear his footsteps stop behind Bucky as he peers over his shoulder and into your upside-down face. “Will ya come to bed or not?” 

Rolling your eyes with a smile, you hide behind Bucky’s hair. “Well, fuckin’ twist my arm...” 

\-- 

Steve sleeps like the dead. It’s comical how he sprawls out and snores softly, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he doesn’t, now that he’s retired. 

You and Bucky have moved to one side where he lies with one arm tucked behind his head and the other one under yours. He tells you Steve usually isn’t so ridiculous, sleeping very lightly and wakes up at the slightest noise, but now there’s a conversation being carried centimeters away from his face and he’s not stirred at all. 

Bucky smiles at this, says _thank god, he needs it_. 

“He’s gonna be up at three bouncing off the walls.” You warn. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. He’ll sprint fifty miles and go to bed.” 

“Jesus, why?” 

“Super serum bullshit, and because he’s a show-offy asshole.” 

“Aren’t you... also serum-ed?” 

“Yeah, but I also love my bed.” 

At that, you whistle, “Man after my own heart.” 

His face lights up as he turns to peer at you resting on the crook of his arm, leaning so that the top of your head is barely on his chest. “Oh yeah?” The silly conversation takes a turn when Bucky tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, finding excuse to let his fingers roam along the edge of your eyebrow, trailing down until he’s past your cheek, further down to your shoulder. 

It’s his left hand that’s touching you, the cold metal of the appendage sending shivers down your back. You can’t help but gaze at the way it reflects the setting sun slipping through the cracks of your blinds. 

The hand under your head is shifted until he’s propping himself up on it. 

Your mouth goes drier each time he squeezes your arm, closing your eyes to concentrate on the contradicting sensations—your warm body, his cold hand, quickly losing its chill. He travels down, down, until his palm is on your hip, then your thigh, then, ghosting between your legs. 

Against your back is Steve, sighing softly. 

“I feel like I’m living out the thirst tweet ‘bout your arm.” You mutter, eyes closing with a tremulous shudder. Bucky laughs, fingers diving between your thighs, hand wrapping over one. 

“You got a thing for getting choked, too?” It’s a joke, but he pinches your flesh and when your tummy flutters, you suddenly grow a bit afraid of your own desires. 

Behind you, Steve stirs. “Don’t let him do it.” His gravelly voice pipes up, muffled by the pillow his cheek is pressed against, “He toes the line of erotic asphyxiation too closely.” Then, he turns, spooning you, and falls back asleep. 

_Why the fuck does Captain America know anything about erotic asphyxiation_. 

Bucky is laughing again, pulling you to his chest before he stills. “I wouldn’t. Unless you really wanted it.” 

“Jesus would you stop.” You mumble, but peek up at him anyway, lips parting in anticipation. He gives it to you, curling his hand around the back of your neck and murmuring nonsense into your mouth. Witticisms that you quickly bite off with a teasing snap of teeth. Bucky pulls away with a sound of surprise. 

“Oh, kitten. You got claws, huh?” 

You show him your canines. “Always had ‘em, bee-itch.” He doesn’t know how a person can make the word _bitch_ into two annoying—maybe endearing— syllables, but you’ve done it. 

Bucky laughs joyfully, smothers his face into the pillow like he doesn’t want you to see, because Bucky Barnes’ reputation as a stone-cold motherfucker has been completely ripped to shreds in your hands and he is trying desperately to retain some semblance of it. 

You grab his face, grinning, eager to see that winsome smile of his. 

“ _Fuck_ , I like you.” He says with a chuckle. 

“Aw, don’t be a bee-itch, Buck.” Steve calls from your back, apparently _not_ asleep after all. “Tell ‘er the damn truth!” Your spine picks up the humidity of his breath, shivers running all the way up to your neck when he kisses your shoulder blade with sloppy presses of his mouth. 

In the sunset glow, Bucky groans dramatically as you and Steve wait, smirks shared between two utter _bastards_ _,_ he thinks. He groans and groans and when he’s out of one long breath he picks up another. 

“Fine, fine.” He relents finally, letting you bask in the glory of that gorgeous wide mouth, stretched so sweetly. He laughs. 

“I love you too. Twist my fuckin’ arm.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought this was the last chapter, but it looks like we got one more, kiddos. More Cincy adventures and another further away. And more Steve time. I think we need more Steve. ;)


	6. In for Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last (NSFW) chapter! Thanks so much for all your love and comments. I have smushed the epilogue into the end. It's been a joy. :')

It’s hot.

It’s so damn hot and your back is slick with sweat.

Your eyes fly open to the stifling humidity of the dark room. A heavy hand is on your hip, lazily draped over and brushing against the soft skin of your tummy. A back is pressed against your chest, heavy breaths drawing in and out, slightly wheezing. Even atop of your feet, there is a weight.

Jesus (Steve), Mary (Bucky), and Joseph (Buck _eye_ ).

You are completely smothered by all of them. When any of you fell asleep—and when Buckeye found it appropriate to flop himself on top of it all is bewildering.

There’s not even a sheet or comforter on top anymore, both things piled on the floor like a lumpy mountain. Buckeye stirs the same time you do, opening his mouth in a squelching yawn and tipping his head back. You glare at him in the dark and uselessly wiggle your toes. “Get off!”

“Buck!” You hiss. He lolls his head sideways and flops his tongue out at you before nuzzling back down onto your ankles, setting his chin on what is probably Bucky. His butt wiggles around, trying to find a new comfortable position, legs kicking yours.

“Your fucking goblin nails! Ouch, Buck!”

Steve stirs with a moan, turning over and throwing his heavy arm over your shoulder, pressing his face into your chest with a contented sigh. It could be sexy, you think, but you’re sure that your boob-sweat is being inhaled right now straight into his lungs.

Bucky grumbles into your back, shuffling until he’s squeezing you too tightly between him and Steve.

“Are you guys awake?” You whisper, “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You release a long-suffering groan when all that responds is another one of Buckeye’s squealing yawns. You slowly pick up Steve’s arm to move it back, but it’s heavy as hell and he keeps grunting into your chest. Somnambulist pervert.

Bucky’s arm moves down, fingers slowly coming to rest on your hip and then slowly—oh hell.

“Dude.” You mutter. His fingers dig into your ass as his shoulders begin to shake behind you. This motherfucker had been awake this whole time, just watching you suffer in-between two human and one canine heater. You swat him away, but he shoves his face deeper into your neck until his breath begins to tickle. Your hands slap harder and faster, “Fuck! Stop! I’m gonna scream!”

“What time is it?” Bucky asks, pulling away with a pant, blowing his hair from his face.

“Way past when we were supposed to wake up. Steve is _out_ , Buck.”

“Yeah he doesn’t really have a middle ground. He’s either awake or he’s dead.”

A silence passes before Bucky’s hand finds the waistband of your romper again.

“You wanna fuck?”

You slap him away with what a shriek might be if someone could do it with their mouth closed. He’s awfully bold and unfiltered now that you’ve shown him your hand and you think he’s probably not bluffing. Bucky laughs again behind you, pulling on the back of your outfit, tugging it a few times and letting it flap. You realize, with a little bit of fondness, that he’s trying to cool you off.

“C’mon.” He slips his legs out from under Buckeye, who whines in betrayal, but watches him with interest anyway. Bucky tugs you out of bed, moving Steve’s arm and pushing his face away from your chest. “Kid’s always been a tits guy.”

“Yeah. Yours are like a B-cup, huh?”

Bucky ignores you, “I like ass. You’re a pain in _my_ ass sometimes… but I bet one of these days, I’ll be a pain in yours. Literally.”

You turn red as a beet, sputter a few times, and then just shut up for your own damn good.

“Just kidding.” Bucky continues, leading you out of the room, “It’ll be mostly pleasure. We’ll find a good balance, sweetheart.”

He traipses into the kitchen, entirely content to strut around as you close your eyes and count to a million because Bucky Barnes has just one-upped your comment so hard you have absolutely nothing else to fire back at him. You think you might swoon; you’re both proud and devastated.

It’s the middle of the night and Bucky is preparing to brew a pot of coffee. You tap him on the shoulder to suggest that it would be a bad idea, but he bites your pointer and snarls like a wild dog.

“God. Once you crack the surface, there’s so much of…this…” You gesture vaguely up and down, “Wha—wait a minute.” Your eyes narrow, “Did you just _snarl_ at me? _You_ don’t snarl at me; _I_ snarl at _you_!”

He spends another few minutes repeating the same noise, just to get on your nerves because he knows there’s not much you can do but give him lip. Frankly, the tables have turned, and Bucky is giving you quite a run for your money when it comes to sass.

It’s kind of hot.

You watch the way his arm flexes when he reaches forward to turn the knob on the stove top. The other one rests loosely on his hip where the band of his sweatpants hang, string untied. His shirt is crumpled unevenly, one hem lower than the other as his metal fingers play with the edge absentmindedly. It’s a bit of a shock for you to realize that Bucky Barnes putting the kettle on is what gets you going.

You’ll take it, though.

You grab a glass of water and down it in three seconds flat before you do anything stupid, but when you turn around you catch him staring at your ass. So, you stare blatantly back at his tush, eyes comically wide.

“Those your bedroom eyes?” He asks, grinding the coffee beans and dumping them into the press. When the kettle begins to screech, he takes it off and fills up the carafe, tapping out five minutes on the microwave timer.

“Buck,” you call seriously, hopping up to sit on the counter, “It’s almost three—neither of us should be drinking coffee.”

“No.” He corrects, “ _You_ shouldn’t be drinking coffee. It doesn’t affect me. I just like the taste.”

“I’m gonna drink some if you drink some.”

“What are you, a lemming?”

“Yes. If you jump, I jump. If you sip the chocolate bean juice, I sip the chocolate bean juice.”

He laughs, and you do too, finding the sound of it more charming each time you hear it. God, he’s so stupidly handsome. You kick your foot out, poking his side with your toe until he shifts and slyly nestles himself in between your legs. “Stevie’s gonna get jealous.”

You seriously doubt there is any merit to that statement. If anything, you think, Steve is probably creeping around in the shadows with your dog, cheering Bucky on silently. He’s a motherfucker like that, orchestrating all of this like a horny puppeteer.

But no, really, he’s very sweet. They both are.

Leaning in, you tug Bucky forward by the collar of his shirt, wrapping your legs around his torso and pulling him in for a kiss. He smiles against your lips, and you’re half tempted to pull away just to get another look at it on his face; it’s something you’ll never get enough of.

His cold hand runs up the length of your spine while the other slips beneath the opening of your romper, tugging playfully on the fabric of your underwear. “You---mmmf—pervy old fuck.” He keeps on, slipping his tongue into your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip when you try to pull away for air. He could smother you, and you’d let him. He’s acting like it’s his intention, anyway.

A part of you feels alleviated, as if the new intimacy has stripped everything else away. You move naturally with Bucky, running your hand through his hair, trailing your fingers over his shoulder and arm—something you were previously concerned about even bringing up. Another part of you is a bit more grounded, too.

The questions you have for them keep getting brushed off. Some things _aren’t_ as easy as they make them seem. Certainly, this relationship won’t be?

“Don’t start this again.” Bucky murmurs, as if reading your thoughts.

“I can’t help it!” You whine. “I’ve never done this before! Nor will it ever happen again—the two of you aren’t exactly regular people, you know?”

“It _better_ never happen again.” Bucky places both his hands on your waist, “Once you’re in, you’re in for life, kid.”

Your eyes widen when you look at him, jaw set firmly, eyes searing into yours. “We’re serious about you. So, what’s it gonna be?”

The timer beeps and he turns around to carefully push the plunger into the press, leaving you staring at the dark tresses of his head. Your heart beats in your chest like a collapsing drum, crashing down and falling apart at Bucky’s bare feet.

He pours two mugs and empties the rest into a thermos for later.

Behind the thin cover of the steam, you avert your eyes. “Y-yeah.” You mutter.

“Yeah?” Bucky takes a sip. You’re not made of super soldier, so you wait for the coffee to cool.

“Yeah. Yes.”

Bucky licks his lips and tilts his chin at you, smiling, “Drink your coffee, sweetheart. Let’s go fuck.”

\--

It’s … you can’t _even_. That’s what being with Bucky is like.

In the cool chamber of the guest room you’ve been sleeping in, he lays you down on the mattress and taps his fingers up and down your arms until your skin crawls with goosebumps. His touches are feather-light, deliberately gentle, teasing and tugging on every last one of your stretched nerves.

No, you would have never guessed upon meeting him that he could be capable of this kind of tenderness. He was joking when he said _fuck_ , because you are certain no part of what he will do to you is as indelicate as that word. Fuck can be reserved for another time— but this, this feels remarkably close to love.

He’s stripped down and sitting up, letting you see him as he is under the soft lamplight glow. Bucky tucks his hair behind his left ear and waits for you.

“Yeah?” He asks quietly, timid smile forming on his lips.

You sit up too, face him, and pull the straps of your outfit down until it pools around your waist. Then you lift yourself up out of it and crawl into his lap, pressing your body flush onto his.

“Yeah.” You sigh, “Yes, Bucky.” And then you can’t help but laugh just a little as you bury your face into his neck. It’s silly. “God—who would have thought?” You ask, “Us? Right now?”

He grins too, kissing your shoulder, “Thought I was going to murder you that night.”

“Yeah. I would have been fine with it as long as you took care of my dog.”

He bites the same place he just kissed. “Don’t ever. Again. Never.” The finality of his statement shuts you right up with a quick yelp with his teeth clamped down on you.

“Okay, sorry.”

“Shit sucks, but now you got us.”

“Okay.”

He nips at your neck, hand rearranging your legs until they lock in behind him. He is warm and hard, your own hands travel over the plane of his chest and around to trace the muscles of his back.

The door squeaks open slightly. Both of you turn to see Steve entering with a lazy smile, flushed pink and shirtless.

“You sleep good?” Bucky asks before he returns to your collarbone, making a trail down to your sternum.

“Mhm. See you got started without me.”

“Sorry.” Bucky responds, not sounding like it at all, “Couldn’t get ya to wake up.”

He rocks his hips up, pushing against your underwear, and you let out what sounds like a balloon on its last squeak of deflation. Steve chuckles and finds a seat behind you, flattening his palm on your lower back, urging you forward.

You should probably be nervous, but for some reason you aren’t. Steve’s hand anchors you, holds you against Bucky carefully. The three of you balance on this tightrope wire, looking over the edge down into shadows.

But there’s a net there. And when you all fall together the love will catch you.

It’s all love.

Steve kisses your back and scoots forward until his chest is pressing into your spine. His other hand pulls your panties to the side and Bucky takes the opportunity to slowly press in.

You arch forward into him, your breasts to his mouth. They’re one and the same, guiding each other, murmuring in low tones and whispers. Slowly, as they move and touch and consume you, you become the same, too, until all three of you melt into the darkness.

\--

Morning arrives and pulls you awake in a jarring grip. Your back is sweaty again, completely drenched and slippery as you wiggle your way out from two naked bodies.

Steve stirs slightly, nuzzling his nose into your cheek. “Mm-uh. Stay.” He tries to convince you by pressing his torso to your side, rubbing himself against your thigh. “We can do it right here.”

Your face burns hot as Bucky groans on the other side.

“I gotta get up and do some work, Steve.” You run your hand through his hair, feeling the warmth of his scalp, “I’ll be back to wake you two. We gotta go to King’s Island today.”

He kisses the top of your head sweetly, but you _have_ to get up or else the work will be so piled on you’ll never resurface from it.

You slip from them, leaving Steve’s grumbling behind.

Furious clicking finds Bucky and Steve when they rise an hour later. You sit in the living room with your tablet balanced in your lap, the thermos from last night empty. They watch proudly as you flip through an enormous journal full of notes and then turn to another binder full of print-outs.

“Hey.” You say distractedly, “Pancakes and sausages’re in the oven keeping warm, I got three more exams and then we can get started.”

Buckeye is faithfully by your knee, tail tapping against the cushion at the two men in the hallway.

When they don’t move, you turn and look at them, “What’s up?”

Steve’s arms are crossed as he leans against Bucky. They share silly smiles because you’re crosslegged again and surrounded by paper and books and your fingers are moving even too fast for super soldiers to keep up with.

“Lookit her, Stevie.” Bucky grins, “Smart girl.”

You make another charming _ppppffftptbbblblbppttt_ and roll your eyes. You know he means it but the compliment is so strange escaping his lips. It’s still new, his affection. Steve’s too, you suppose. Your cheeks flare anyway as they pad into the kitchen for breakfast.

You were sure to make precisely a bajillion blueberry pancakes this morning and a tray full of sausage links, saving just a few of each for yourself. Between reading a book and taking notes, cooking on a giant griddle and sticking sausages in an oven made the tasks relatively simple. You’ll also read and grade on the way to the park.

In the corner of your eye, Steve pokes at a fluffy stack with his fork. Bucky bites into a sausage and waggles his eyebrows. They both snort and start flicking each other off. You have to focus, but damn if they don’t make it hard to stay on track.

Spending the last two months in their presence has made little changes to your routine that you’re now thankful for. Before them, it was nothing but school and Buckeye. Hardly any time to cook or to enjoy yourself. There was nothing but monotony and the proclamation of your dog being the only tether to this world.

Your poor therapist, worrying her lip each time you came by in a rush between your classes, words tumbling so fast she had to make you stop and literally breathe each time.

Now, there’s so much laughter. So much silliness.

Your cheeks continue to burn.

There is so much love.

Steve plants a syrupy kiss to your lips. Bucky presses a berry onto your tongue soon afterwards.

The tablet is pulled away, books too. Even Buckeye is picked up and placed onto another chair. Your disagreeing voice is smothered by two mouths, taking turns overwhelming yours.

“I gotta--”

“Nope,” Bucky hushes.

“Not right now.” Steve confirms. “Gonna do you on the couch.”

“It’s a nice couch,” Bucky states plainly, “Real nice. Soft leather.”

“Your parents’ couch.” Steve adds.

Bucky laughs in your ear, pressing your chest down until your back hits the soft cushion, “That’s direct action, baby.”

\--

“Oh no. Oh no. Oh no oh no-ohnonononono…” And then finally, “FUCK NO!”

The shriek flings itself back behind your shoulder as the rollercoaster drops down and takes your stomach right out of your throat along with your words.

Bucky is cackling madly to your left, Steve on the other side of him whooping. He’s yelling something that is making Bucky laugh harder, but you can’t hear it for the whips of wind tearing through your ears.

“Technically!” You yell, “King’s Island is an expansion of Coney— but no one really remembers—- Ah FUCK!”

The loop slams your head into the cushioned rest, and you bite down on your cheek. You’re going to vomit. You scream again when the next drop throws your stomach up into your diaphragm.

As the ride slows, you blink the tears away and sniffle.

“Aw, baby. It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“It’s the wind you jerk! I’m not actually crying!”

“Are you gonna throw up?” Steve wonders, thinking on the memory of the Cyclone.

“No! Don’t get your hopes up, Rogers. You’re the only one here who’s a bitch.”

Bucky laughs and tugs you against his side. The three of you trek onward to the next destination, caps pulled low on your heads so that neither of them are recognized. Luckily, it’s overcast again so Bucky wearing a long sleeve isn’t so strange.

The only strange thing is that three of you are full grown adults at the park without any children. Either way, there are occasional stares.

A frozen banana is shared and devoured in three bites from three different mouths. Five more rides are taken and when you take them into the line for Flight of Fear, Steve peers around curiously at the very X-Files décor. _Real Roswell,_ you share, pretending to be that guy from the History Channel, _Aliens!_

At the loading station, Steve bristles and you’re not sure why until you see the cryotube props. Bucky pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t get offended for _my_ sake.” He climbs into the seat behind you and Steve and plays with your hair when the shuttle clatters forward into the dark.

“I didn’t realize.” You whisper in Steve’s ear.

“I can hear you.” Bucky replies.

When the rain hits as you’re buying your second frozen banana, Steve is ready to go home. He’s not spending another day sopping wet on an outdoor excursion. The white of his shirt turns peach like his skin.

-

You take them to a bar, instead, even though you promised that you were just showing them the scenic route before heading home. In the car, Bucky grew suspicious when you began to drive in the opposite direction, but you distracted Steve with more threats of Skyline, and he was quick to reel Bucky to his side.

It’s still somewhat early, only around eight or so, and the bar is barely half-full, mostly couples who are at the end of their day-drinking and want to relax with video games.

“Knock yourself out. All arcade games are free.” You grin happily, “This place is _awesome_. And the drinks are--” You kiss your fingertips and blow it into the air, “Be back in a sec.”

They watch you prance over to the bar and wait in line, bouncing on your feet. Steve shrugs and begins to wander while Bucky lingers by the table, eyes fixed on you. When you arrive at the bar, you smile cheerily at the bartender and show him your ID.

You’re much nicer to strangers than you are to… Bucky scoffs inwardly, _superheroes_ , apparently. The more Bucky watches, the bigger his smile grows. You’re leaned forward, listening intently as the guy points to each item on the menu. It’s cute how your nose scrunches up at something you don’t like, or the way you nod enthusiastically when something catches your fancy.

Then, suddenly, Bucky begins to grow apprehensive because why are you spending so long at the bar? And why are you leaning forward so far and smiling so much? You have never smiled for that prolonged of a time at anything other than your dog.

You catch his eye a few seconds later and wink at his scowl. Upon returning with three drinks in your hands and a wrapper of _something_ in your mouth, he understands now.

“That dude gave me free drinks and a popsy.”

You slide one glass to him and keep the others. Then, you tear open the plain package and reveal a bomb pop—red white and blue. “Popsicle!” Then you stick it in your mouth and swirl the ice around until it turns a muted purple, staining your tongue.

Distractedly, you look around for Steve who is standing at a pinball machine, tapping furiously on the paddles.

Bucky sends you a withering look.

“Don’t be a wet blanket. I got the drink for _you_. It only cost me five minutes and a smile.” Then you dunk the popsicle in his cocktail and give him a cold kiss on the cheek. He shakes his head, glares back at the bar where the guy is looking over and stands up so that he’s blocking the view to your back.

Next to Steve, Bucky tattles.

“Oh, be quiet!” You cry, hand coming up to cover his face, “Mom and Daaaaad!” You whine nasally, “Can I go out to plaaaaaay?”

“You were flirting for a free drink!” Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Excuse me, there are _three?_ ” You steal the popsicle back and crunch through it.

Steve huffs, crosses his arms, and lets his pinball fall straight in-between the immobile paddles. The machine warbles sadly before honking out _game over_ sirens. Lights flash around the rectangle of its frame.

“Well—” Steve pauses, “Well, good for you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” You smile. Two girls to your side giggle at the conversation and you turn and curtsy to them. “Jonathan with the eyes is a _sucker_ , ladies.”

Bucky grumbles and throws his drink down, snaps the wooden stick in half with his teeth. Everyone has fucking eyes, he thinks.

An hour later and all arcade games exhausted, Bucky drives home in silence, fuming. He’s still not over the fact that you saddled up next to some guy, but he just has to get over it. It’s really _not_ a big deal. Steve winks at you from the front seat, catching your eye in the mirror.

-

“Funny movie?” You ask, kicking your feet onto the top of the coffee table, remote in hand and clicking mindlessly.

“Rom-com.” Steve requests, pointing to a title above two generic white actors giving each other enamored glances. Lame.

“Zombies.” Bucky deadpans.

They both turn to look at each other, shaking their heads in disappointment at what’s been thrown out. You sigh, trying to find something that fits all three.

“ _Tucker and Dale_ , it is.”

-

When another college kid gets impaled, Steve pauses the movie.

He is not a fan. “I don’t get it!” He keeps saying, “Just call the cops!”

You throw your head back, “It’s bumfuck nowhere!”

He picks the next one.

-

“I hate this.” You stab the red button on the remote and shut off another mistletoe kiss. How does he even find Christmas Lifetime movies in the middle of the summer?

Bucky snatches it from the couch and clicks the screen back on.

“Zombies.” He proclaims again.

“It’s just not logical!” Steve cries, “They’re _dead_!” His voice rises until you think it could crack the chandelier in the living room, “What—why would they even be eating anything? They’re _dead!_ ”

“Zombies!” Bucky shouts.

“No!” You scream in reply, stomping your foot. In the background, Steve continues his rant—something about Banner finding a cure, something else about the sun, another thing about regardless of how the world is terribly messed up, God will not blight the Earth with zombies, of all creatures.

“ _Zom-bies_.” Bucky hisses, glaring at you, as if you are the point of origin for his ire.

Buckeye hops off the couch and plods over under the coffee table. He snorts and shuffles around and scratches the rug before lying down and staring at the three of you like you all share one single braincell.

When Bucky hollers _ZOMBIES_ for the final time, you lock eyes with your dog, who whines pathetically and turns away, as if he is embarrassed by the humans.

-

Cillian Murphy is twenty-something and gorgeous. You are obviously drooling over those enormous blue eyes and pouty, swollen lips, even if he is wind-chafed and underweight, running around in a flapping hospital gown.

Steve gets an idea when you lick your lips distractedly, reaching over the back of Bucky’s neck to twist a lock of your hair in his finger. Bucky shrugs him off, but he continues. _28 Days Later_ or not, Steve’s on a mission; fuck the zombies.

Obviously, you have a type.

But if he voices it, Bucky might go slash Jonathan’s tires and find Cillian Murphy somewhere in Ireland and do the same thing to him, too. _New love,_ Steve muses, _such a delicate thing._

He gets up and sits on your other side, pulling until you are resting on his chest. “Is it scary?” He asks.

“Ooooh, _so_ scary,” you squeal, and then suddenly jump when one of the undead shrieks and tears down the road, “Fuck! These are runners!?”

“Eat him.” Bucky goads, “Eat him, goddamn it.”

Steve pulls your chin away from pointing at the screen and kisses you slowly, tugging you back each time you continue to turn, fixed on the scene. “Mmm, baby.” He sighs, “C’mere.”

“Dude, Steve, I— he’s mmmhm.. okay, wait…would you—- mm!” His tongue slides into your mouth as one hand grips your head. Okay, this fucker _knows_ what he’s doing. “Buck,” you gasp, “fill me in on the deets because—”

“Because you have a crush on this guy, too?” Bucky glares, crossing his arms. You pull away from Steve and weave each attempt he makes at devouring your face.

“Are you serious?” You ask, “You are sipping hella dumbass juice right now.”

“Jealous juice.” Steve corrects, and you smirk at him because the two of you combined are a lethal dose of one-hundred-percent pure bastard straight into the bloodstream. Leaning over, still strapped in on Steve, you clasp your hand over Bucky’s jaw, pinching his cheeks together with a glare.

“You said _in for life_ , you brat.” You mutter, “I’m in a relationship—not dead. Not ungrateful or unfaithful, either. Handle the fact that I’m a person, or get out.”

His eyes widen the same time Steve’s does because you’ve never been this serious with them before. Your tone is grave and your stare is fiery. In the middle of four-hundred solid pounds of serum-injected mass, you are a stark contrast, but somehow holding all the cards.

Something prods your inner thigh and you narrow your eyes, turning to Steve. “Really, Stevie? This is what does it for you?”

He only grins back, licking the corner of his mouth, “Can you blame me? Guess I’ve got a type too. Bossy. Mouthy.”

Bucky groans and smacks the back of his head into the cushion. “I guess I do too. Fuck.”

It’s as close to an apology as you’ll get, and you love that stupid, stubborn boy so you’ll take it. Steve smiles at him and then at you before pulling you closer by your hip bones, letting the heat of him burn past the layers of your clothes.

Bucky is content to watch, waiting for your permission.

Linking your fingers through his, you place both entwined hands on his thigh and kiss Steve, letting your tongue touch his in a slow, teasing lick. He chuckles into your mouth, grips the back of your head in a blistering passion and pushes his chest into yours until it feels like he’s crushing your rib cage. If this is how you die, flattened between two searing-hot (literally and otherwise) men who—Christ, love you for whatever reason—it’d be a death you look forward to.

Steve pulls away suddenly, eyes twinkling with some secret knowledge.

“What?”

“You called me Stevie.”

“Did I?”

Bucky grins, “Ooooh, _Stevie_ …” he doesn’t know how to squeal so he says it in a low, husky tone instead and you swear Steve moans a little before he breaks out into a wide smile, so bright you have to squint. Jesus, Captain America should be on T.V.--- wait, he already is. You are so completely lost in that look he’s got on, like you’ve presented him with a puppy or something that you hardly notice Bucky to your side, humming a low throaty tune.

“So…” he sings, gesturing to the space where you have leaned away from Steve and then down to the tent in Steve’s jeans, “You guys fuckin’ or what?”

___________________________________________________________________________

The end of summer break nears and you’re ready for two years of writing your dissertation before you can fuck off out of the program with a diploma and a J-O-B. It’s both exciting and terrifying at the same time, but if you’re good at anything, it’s putting on a front. This semester you are working as a TA for one of your favorite professors and juggling an off-campus job at the local coffee shop.

Three more days left until the start of the semester and you’ve already met early with your professor and created your email list.

Buckeye is well, drooling all over the place, flopping down and staring out the window. Same as ever. Manhattan assholes still glare at him when you walk him down the street but it sure helps when Steve or Bucky are by your side and glare right back.

It’s cute.

Two boyfriends.

Who the heckin’ would have thought that the night your life flashed before your eyes twice (unnamed goon and Bucky Barnes’ fist nearly in your face) that you’d come out of it with two semi-retired Avengers attached to your hip?

Three days left and you’ve convinced them to jet off on a tiny mini-cation. You wrestled the wheel from Bucky and drove an hour east from the DFW airport with Steve singing along to _Sad n’ Sexy Santa_ while Bucky kicks his seat repeatedly. It makes your heart swell because damn how’d you get so lucky?

The interstate reaches cropped green plains as the metroplex skyscrapers sink further away into the horizon behind you. From the backseat, Bucky sits up, leaning on Steve’s chair as he stares out the front windshield at a cartoonish yellow sign.

“What… is… it?”

You smirk. “It’s why we’re here. That, and brisket.”

“It’s a gas station?” Steve is confused, too. You’ve been tight-lipped about the entire thing. But his eyes widen before fearfully glancing back and forth across the colossal parking lot and the stretch of what looks like fifty gas-pumps. “Or is it an airport…?”

You lead them in and it’s like their whole world has turned upside down. Steve and Bucky stare at the expanse of seemingly never-ending aisles. People rush about, enormous bags of popcorn under their arms. Chips, candy, kolaches, bear claws, stuffed animals, clothing, Texas-shaped cutting boards, and blinged out purses. There is even an aisle dedicated to pebbles. What does it mean?

“It’s a Buc-ees.” You state, waving your hand in a wide circle, palm flat. “Whatdya think, Bucky?”

The pun is not lost on him and he grumbles.

“You dragged me all the way out here for this?”

“And brisket.”

“There’s brisket in Manhattan, baby.” Steve suggests, but you whip around and hiss at him, “Don’t you dare. Heathen. Ain’t no beef like Texas beef. Grade A, one-hundred-percent beef.” Then you pause and with an exaggerated raise of your eyebrow, pinch his bottom.

“And you too, I guess.” Steve yelps with a slight jump, turning redder than a tomato as the eyes of strangers find him.

Bucky doesn’t notice, only stares on mesmerized by the bustle of foot traffic and the smells of jerky, candy, and the fresh, burning scent of Pine-Sol cleaner. Ahhhh… a perfect combination.

“What is this.” Bucky mutters, “It looks like hell.”

With a clap on his arm and a proud puffing of your chest, you pick up a nearby orange shirt with the slogan _You can go to hell. I’m going to Texas_.

“Welcome to Texas, baby. Everything’s bigger." With a perverted leering look at his groin, you wink. "You’ll fit right in.”


End file.
